POEMS 


MISCELLANIES 


SELECTED      FROM      THE 


WRITINGS  OF  MISS  ELIZA  TOWNSEND. 


PRINTED  BUT  NOT  PUBLISHED. 


BOSTON: 
PRESS    OF    GEO.    C.    RAND    &    AVERY, 

No.    3    CORNHILL. 
1856. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856, 

BY  MART  P.  TOWNSEXD. 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE. 


THIS  volume  is  printed  for  the  use  of  friends,  as  a  memorial  of  the  late  Miss 
ELIZA  TOWNSEND,  a  lady  whose  gifts  and  virtues  had,  for  many  years,  drawn  around 
her  the  unfeigned  respect  and  love  of  a  large  circle  in  this  community.  She  was 
born  in  Boston,  June,  1788,  spent  her  life  in  her  native  city,  and  died  at  her 
house  in  Hawkins  street,  on  the  night  of  January  12th,  1854,  in  the  sixty-sixth 
year  of  her  age.  It  is  an  act  of  simple  justice  to  present  a  prefatory  record,  how- 
ever inadequate,  of  grateful  reminiscence. 

To  attempt  to  delineate  in  a  few  words,  and  in  strong,  life-like  colors,  the  sev- 
eral distinct  points,  each  by  itself,  which  present  themselves  as  we  remember  Miss 
Townsend,  would  be  like  trying  to  decompose  a  fine  fragrance  into  its  component 
parts.  She  has  been  known  and  distinguished  among  us  as  a  literary  character,  not 
of  the  school  of  the  present  day  so  much  as  of  a  past  period.  Her  acquaintance 
with  the  British  classics  was  very  remarkable  ;  and  in  the  walks  of  English  liter- 
ature, and  among  the  thoughts  of  the  worthies  of  England's  golden  age,  she  was 
entirely  at  home.  On  themes  like  these  she  was  truly  eloquent ;  for  here  her  heart 
and  intellect  met  in  happy  sympathy.  Her  friends  of  former  days,  as  well  as  those  of 
a  recent  period,  cannot  fail  to  remember  with  what  delight  they  were  accustomed  to 
listen  to  the  easy  flow,  the  rich  and  sometimes  gorgeous  style  of  her  conversation, 
when  she  was  interested  and  excited  by  animating  trains  of  thought ;  for  there  have 
been  among  us  few  so  good  talkers.  She  had  a  quick  and  strong  perception  of 
poetical  beauty  and  sublimity.  No  one  could  be  acquainted  with  Miss  Townsend, 
without  perceiving  that  her  mind  was  of  a  high  order.  It  was  rich  in  the  gathered 

762992 


2  INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 

stores  of  early  and  long  continued  culture,  embellished  by  a  living  fancy,  and  made 
effective  by  a  sound  judgment.  Those  who  were  familiar  with  her,  were  much  im- 
pressed with  this  wealth  of  her  mind,  but  at  the  same  time  felt  that  there  was 
nothing  in  it  approaching  to  exhibition  or  display.  What  of  literature  she  had  — 
and  it  was  by  no  means  an  ordinary  share  —  sat  gracefully  and  appropriately  upon 
her  character.  Most  evidently  it  had  been  gathered  not  to  be  shown,  but  because 
the  love  of  elegant  letters  was  a  natural,  spontaneous  taste.  This  high  mental  cul- 
ture was  the  more  remarkable,  when  we  consider  that  in  her  early  years  the  field  of 
female  education  was  by  no  means  so  wide  and  diversified  as  at  present.  What 
she  gained  came  not  from  the  forcing  processes  of  the  schools,  but  from  an  innate 
love  of  intellectual  improvement. 

It  should  be  added  that  the  rapid  growth  and  expansive  strength  of  her  mind 
were  greatly  promoted  by  the  excellent  instructions  and  advice  of  a  brother,  whom 
she  dearly  loved,  and  whose  memory  she  always  cherished  with  the  fondest  affec- 
tions of  a  sister's  heart  —  the  late  Alexander  Townsend,  Esq.,  long  well-known  in 
Boston  as  a  man  of  vigorous  mind  and  warm  heart,  an  accomplished  gentleman, 
and  a  lawyer  of  high  reputation.  * 

As  a  writer,  Miss  Townsend  evinced  an  energy  of  thought  and  a  vigor  of 
imagination,  which  won  for  her  a  high  place  hi  the  estimation  of  the  best  judges. 
Her  prose  style  was  strong,  terse  and  impressive  ;  and  her  poetry  breathed  the 
power  of  genius.  She  published  many  beautiful  poetical  pieces,  some  of  which 
were  suggested  by  occasions,  and  some  were  furnished  to  the  periodicals  of  a  former 
day.  Mr.  Griswold  made  a  selection  from  them  in  his  volume  entitled  "  The 
Female  Poets  of  America ;"  and  in  the  introductory  notice  Mr.  Griswold  remarks 
that  Miss  Townsend  "  was  the  first  native  poet  of  her  sex,  whose  writings  commanded 
the  applause  of  judicious  critics  —  the  first  whose  poems  evinced  any  real  inspira- 
tion, or  rose  from  the  merely  mechanical  into  the  domain  of  art."  He  adds  —  "  The 
late  Mr.  Nicholas  Biddle,  whose  judgment  in  literature  was  frequently  illustrated 
by  the  most  admirable  criticisms,  once  mentioned  to  me  that  a  Prize  Ode  which 

*  Mr.  Townsend  died  April  5, 1835,  aged  62  years. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE.  o 

Miss  Townsend  wrote  for  the  Port  Folio,*  while  he  himself  was  editor  of  that 
miscellany,  soon  after  the  death  of  Dennie,  was,  in  his  opinion,  the  finest  poem 
of  its  kind  which  at  that  time  had  been  written  in  this  country ;  and  many  of  her 
other  pieces  received  the  best  approval  of  the  period,  but,  as  she  kept  her  authorship 
a  secret,  without  securing  for  her  any  personal  reputation."  Among  the  pieces 
omitted  in  Mr.  Griswold's  selection  is  a  very  beautiful  one  entitled  "  The  Rain- 
bow,"! which  was  published  in  the  third  volume  of  "  The  General  Repository 
and  Review,"  —  a  journal  edited  by  Mr.  Andrews  Norton,  Cambridge,  1813. 
Several  of  Miss  Townsend's  later  poems  were  of  a  religious  character.  Of  one  of 
these,  on  "  The  Incomprehensibility  of  God,"$  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cheever  has  said, 
that  "it  is  equal  in  grandeur  to  the  Thanatopsis  of  Bryant,  and  that  it  will  not 
suffer  by  comparison  with  the  most  sublime  pieces  of  "Wordsworth  or  of  Coleridge." 
It  was  difficult  to  overcome  her  reluctance  to  be  known  as  a  writer,  and  in  late 
years  she  shunned  entirely  the  notoriety  of  authorship. 

With  this  strength  of  mind  was  united  in  Miss  Townsend  an  uncommonly  quick 
sensibility  of  feeling.  Her  own  sympathy  was  both  easily  moved,  and  deep.  There 
was  a  peculiar  beauty  in  her  love  to  her  friends,  and  in  her  kindness  to  their 
friends.  She  felt  a  warm  and  hearty  interest  in  such  as  were  connected  with  those 
whom  she  had  loved,  and  whose  cherished  memory  seemed  to  say  to  her,  "  inas- 
much as  ye  have  done  it  unto  them,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me."  To  the  poor  and 
the  distressed  she  was  a  generous  friend.  She  seemed  always  to  think  more  of 
others  than  of  herself.  If  she  was  indifferent  to  the  comfort  and  indulgence  of 
any  one,  it  was  to  her  own.  Her  keen  sensibility  to  cases  of  suffering  and  sorrow 
created  perhaps  the  only  disquiet  to  her  otherwise  tranquil  happiness.  But  stronger 
even  than  that  feeling  was  her  trust  in  Him,  who  maketh  all  things  work  together 
for  good. 

One  could  not  but  be  impressed  with  the  serious  integrity  of  feeling  and  of 
judgment,  which  marked  alike  the  conduct  and  the  opinions  of  Miss  Townsend. 

*  See  page  139  of  this  volume.  f  See  page  133.  $  See  page  80. 

B 


4  INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 

"What  she  thought  and  did  was  the  result  of  a  definite,  matured  state  of  mind. 
While  her  emotions  were  lively  and  warm,  they  always  seemed  the  outgrowth  of 
principle,  not  the  sudden  start  of  impulse.  Whether  you  agreed  with  her  views  or 
not,  you  always  felt  that  they  had  been  adopted  in  perfect  honesty  of  judgment, 
and  with  a  deep  sense  of  their  truth  and  importance.  There  was  no  trifling,  no 
indifference,  no  carelessness,  no  playing  fast  and  loose,  in  the  processes  of  her  moral 
or  intellectual  nature.  With  all  this  firmness,  she  had  a  fair  and  kind  regard  to 
the  beliefs  of  others,  however  much  they  differed  from  her  own.  There  was  cer- 
tainly no  lack  of  independence ;  and  as  certainly  there  was  no  lack  of  charity. 
Warmth  of  feeling  mingled  with  her  opinions,  enough  to  make  them  seem  deeply 
real  and  truthful,  but  not  so  as  to  communicate  to  them  the  heat  of  passion.  On 
nearly  all  subjects  in  literature,  in  religion,  in  civil  and  social  matters,  her  taste 
and  turn  of  thought  were  strongly  conservative.  But  her  conservatism  was  not  a 
prejudice,  not  a  blind  adhesion  to  the  old  or  the  past,  but  a  settled  conviction  that 
the  principles,  on  which  she  formed  her  judgments,  were  sound,  salutary  and 
righteous.  If  she  was  not  a  philanthropist  in  the  way  which  others  chose,  she  was 
so  in  her  own  way  of  kindness  and  of  doing  good.  She  would  not  be  importuned 
into  giving  aid  where  she  did  not  believe  the  claim  to  be  just  and  right ;  but  in 
cases  selected  by  her  own  conscientious  judgment,  her  unostentatious  bounty  was 
ready  and  true  hearted,  — as  kind  in  manner  as  it  was  benevolent  in  spirit.  There 
was  in  her  character  a  union  of  firmness,  of  sympathy,  and  of  excellent  feeling, 
which  no  one  who  knew  her  well  could  fail  to  respect. 

It  should  be  said  of  Miss  Townsend  that  she  was  a  sincerely  religious  woman. 
The  Unitarian  faith  was  that  which  substantially  approved  itself  to  her  judgment 
and  her  spiritual  feelings.  For  its  leading  views  she  entertained  an  enlightened 
and  well-established  preference.  But  no  person  could  be  more  free  from  bondage 
to  a  sect.  She  rose  above  all  party  predilections  to  the  great  and  holy  principles 
which  bring  the  soul  into  hallowed  union  with  God  and  the  Savior.  It  was 
manifest  that  upon  these  she  loved  to  rest  her  deepest  interest  and  affections. 
Nothing  would  sooner  awaken  her  indignation  than  any  instance  of  narrowness  or 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE.  0 

bigotry,  let  it  appear  in  what  part  of  the  religious  community  it  might,  whether  in 
that  to  which  she  was  herself  attached,  or  in  another.  With  respect  to  doctrinal 
peculiarities,  and  the  hope  of  acceptance  with  God  for  the  conscientious  and  the 
good,  her  soul  was  as  large,  free,  and  comprehensive  as  the  spirit  of  the  Gospel 
itself.  She  was  well  acquainted  with  the  prevalent  theological  discussions,  and 
spoke  of  them  in  a  manner  which  showed  that  her  fine  understanding  could  apply 
itself  to  these  topics  with  the  same  clearness  and  dignity  of  thought,  which  marked 
its  other  developments.  No  one  heard  from  her  a  word  of  asperity  on  such 
subjects.  There  was  sometimes  a  playfulness  in  noting  what  she  believed  to  be 
religious  errors,  which  instead  of  appearing  as  levity,  only  testified  to  the  kindly 
spirit  that  ran  through  all  her  feelings  and  statements.  For  the  institutions  of 
Christianity  Miss  Townsend  cherished  a  hearty  reverence.  In  attendance  on  the 
public  services  of  religion  she  was  constant,  not  as  a  matter  of  custom,  but  because 
she  loved  the  associations  and  privileges  of  the  sanctuary.  The  interest  she  felt  in 
preaching  and  in  religious  books  was  evinced  by  her  frequent  discussion  of  them 
with  such  candor,  seriousness,  and  practical  appreciation  of  their  value,  as  might  well 
rebuke  the  flippant  tone  of  frivolous  criticism  so  common  in  these  matters.  Her 
faith  in  the  Gospel  was  a  deep,  living  sentiment.  He  who  came  to  bring  life  and 
immortality  to  light,  was  in  very  deed  to  her  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the  life ;  and 
by  habitual  communion  with  God  on  earth  her  soul  was  ripened  for  that  better 
communion  to  which  she  has  ascended. 

Our  tribute  to  the  memory  of  this  excellent  lady  is  offered  heartily,  because  it 
is  believed  to  be  honestly  merited.  Her  departure  from  the  midst  of  us  has  left  a 
void  in  the  old  and  dear  associations  of  many,  which  will  not  easily  be  filled.  But 
the  eye  of  faith  looks  with  calm  trust  to  that  which  is  highest. 

"  Yet  again  we  hope  to  meet  thee, 
When  the  day  of  life  has  fled, 
Then  in  heaven  with  joy  to  greet  thee, 
Where  no  farewell  tear  is  shed." 


6  INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 

The  manuscripts  which  Miss  Townsend  left  are  of  a  miscellaneous  character, 
produced  as  occasions  in  which  she  was  interested  happened  to  suggest.  From 
these,  and  from  writings  already  in  print,  a  sister,  who,  after  having  lived  by  her 
side  many  years  of  dearly  remembered  happiness,  is  now  deeply  chastened  by  a  loss 
which  has  left  her  alone  in  the  world,  has  made  such  a  selection  as  seemed  best 
fitted  to  represent  her  genius  and  taste.  It  is  hoped  and  believed  that  it  will  prove 
an  acceptable  memorial  to  those  who  have  known  and  loved  this  gifted  lady.  The 
pieces  are  arranged  in  chronological  order,  as  far  as  the  dates  of  their  composition 
are  known. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Introductory  Notice, 1 

To  A.  T.,  on  his  importuning  the  writer  to  compose  something  of  magnitude,  ....       9 

Tributary  Lines  —  to  James  Fennell, 11 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Warren,  formerly  Mrs.  Merry,  of  the  London  Theatre,     18 

Occasional  Ode, 21 

To  Cheerfulness, 34 

A  Hymn  for  First  of  May, 37 

A  Petition, 39 

Another  "  Castle  in  the  Air," 41 

To  Sarah,  Countess  of  Rumford, 44 

An  Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mary  H.  Shaw,  daughter  of  Judge  Howel,  of  Providence,  . .     47 

Yesterday,  To-day,  To-morrow, 49 

An  Inscription, 55 

Stanzas  commemorative  of  Charles  B.  Brown,  of  Philadelphia,  Author  of  "  Wie- 

land,"  "  Cimond,"  "  Arthur  Mervyn,"  etc 59 

Stanzas, 64 

A  Rhapsody.     To  Robert  Southey, 67 

Duncan  M'Intosh, 75 

Incomprehensibility  of  God, 80 

Lines  to  the  Memory  of  Thomas  F.  Palmer, 83 

The  Eastern  King  and  Southern  Queen,  (A  Hebrew  Fable,) : 85 

A  Vision,   91 

A  Ballad  occasioned  by  the  late  fatal  Combat  on  the  Maryland  Border, 99 

A  Fragment, 106 

To  C , 110 

"  When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ?" 112 

The  Vase,    114 


8  CONTENTS. 

Page. 
Stanzas  commemorative  of  the  twenty-third  day  of  December,  1815,  when  the 

British  were  repulsed  from  New  Orleans.     An  attempted  Imitation  of  Sir 

Walter  Scott's  Verses  on  Mr.  Pitt's  Birthday, 118 

Stanzas  on  a  View  of  Newstead  Park,  belonging  to  a  Seat  late  the  Property  of  the 

Right  Honorable  Lord  Byron, 121 

Stanzas  supposed  to  have  been  written  near  a  Villa  in  Naples,  once  the  residence 

of  Emma,  Lady  Hamilton, 128 

The  Rainbow, 133 

Ocean.  A  Naval  Prize  Ode, .  130 

A  Fragment, 152 

The  First  Gravestone, 155 

The  Dead, 157 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Study-Chair  belonging  to  the  late  Horace  Holley, 159 

On  a  Wreath  brought  by  F.  Alexander  from  the  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  in 

Pere  le  Chaise, 161 

An  Inscription  for  a  Monument  to  the  Memory  of  Gen.  Humphreys, 163 

Lines  on  a  Stone  from  the  Field  of  Waterloo, 165 

To  A.  T.,  at  Washington, 167 

A  Dirge,  written  at  the  decease  of  John  Adams,  July  4, 1826, 169 

Ode  to  whom  it  concerns, 1 74 

To  M 180 

Lines  to  a  Wall-Flower  from  the  Coliseum, 182 

To  our  Java  Sparrows, 185 

Little  Canary, 187 

The  Dead  Bird, 189 

To  little  "  Wag," 190 

The  Wife  of  Seaton,  or  the  Siege  of  Berwick :  an  Historic  Tragedy,  198 

Considerations  on  the  Character  of  Lady  Macbeth, 261 

Childe  Harold, 272 

Kokeby, 286 

Montgomery's  Poems, 300 

Waverly,  S14 

Madame  Necker, 393 

Madame  de  Maintenon, 331 

Thoughts  on  Milton, 336 

On  Mrs.  Grant's  Letter  relative  to  George  IV  and  Queen  Caroline, 345 

Obituary, , .  353 


POEMS  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 


TO  A.  T, 

ON   HIS   IMPORTUNING   THE   WRITER   TO    COMPOSE   SOMETHING   OF   MAGNITUDE. 

[  Salem,  1808.  ] 

OFT  have  you  said,  (or  scolded  rather,) 

In  many  a  literary  quarrel, 
Why  strive  these  useless  sprigs  to  gather, 

E'en  though  they  should  be  "  sprigs  of  laurel  ?  " 
No !  strive  to  have  some  lofty  tree, 

Whose  branches  stretching  o'er  the  plain, 
Reclined  beneath  thou  It  gladly  see ; 

Then  take  thy  ease,  nor  plant  again  ! 
Thou  dearest  one !  and  dost  thou,  then, 

Prize  the  rude  lines  I  thus  indite  ? 
And  think  of  manners  and  of  men 

Thy  minstrel  qualified  to  write  ? 
Grant  that  a  the  tree  "  thy  wish  would  raise, 

To  meet  thy  wish,  had  grown  and  flourished, 


10  POEMS   AOTI   MISCELLANIES* 

Protected  by  thy  guardian  praise, 

And  by  thy  kind  attention  nourished ; 
Grant  that  its  early  buds  were  fair, 

That  taste  and  tint  its  fruits  combined ; 
Its  dewy  foliage  cooled  the  air, 

Its  balmy  fragrance  blessed  the  wind ; 
Grant  that  its  roots  were  firmly  fixed, 

Its  limbs  its  just  proportion  knew, 
Duly  its  soft'ning  shadows  mixed, 

And  pruned  each  shoot  that  wildly  grew ;  — 
All  unadmired  those  leaves  would  fade, 

Untasted  be  that  fruitage-store ; 
Ah !  withered  soon  its  slighted  shade, 

Its  wasted  fragrance  breathed  no  more !  — 
Thy  hand  alone,  indulgent  friend, 

Its  garlands,  meet  for  praise,  would  twine, 
And  eVry  sweet  it  e'er  might  lend, 

Would  satisfy  no  sense  but  thine. 
Then  cease,  thou  partial  prompter,  cease 

The  wish  to  urge  a  loftier  strain ; 
The  humble-hearted  taste  a  peace 

The  rash  aspirant  ne'er  could  gain, 
And  still  indulge  the  careless  muse ; 

These  wild-flower  shoots,  as  wont  entwined, 
The  tears  of  love  its  only  dews, 

Then  graft  the  chaplet  on  thy  mind. 


TRIBtJTARY   LINES.  11 


TRIBUTARY    LINES. 

TO   JAMES   FENNELL. 

WHERE  is  the  one,  whose  soul  of  amplest  plan 
In  Nature's  mint  received  the  stamp  of  man  ? 
When  erst  the  goddess,  fired  with  noblest  rage 
At  the  vile  cheatings  of  a  bankrupt  age ; 
Intent  her  treasury,  the  stage,  to  clear 
From  dazzling  counterfeits,  late  current  here  ; 
Bade  from  her  mines  their  purest  ore  be  brought, 
Mines,  pervious  only  to  the  track  of  thought ; 
And  taught  the  braggart  witlings  to  behold, 
And  learn  the  diff' rence  'twixt  their  dross  and  gold. 
While  just  discernments  give  to  worth  its  due, 
Detect  base  metal,  and  admire  the  true. 

Say  where  the  one,  thus  singled  from  an  host, 
Nature's  exemplar,  votary,  and  boast  ? 
Tell  me,  ye  crowds,  who  owns  that  eye-ball's  glare, 
That  form  majestic,  and  that  martial  air  ? 
Who,  grateful  for  the  impress  which  he  bore, 
Has  much  received,  but  still  has  rendered  more. 

*  First  printed  in  "  The  Emerald,"  Boston,  1808. 


12  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Language  to  him  unlocks  her  countless  stores ; 

And  deep  and  wide  the  critic's  glance  explores, 

Ulumes  the  archives,  gives  the  poets'  lore 

To  speak  a  latent  sense,  unknown  before ; 

While  Taste's  keen  orbs  their  covert  charms  discern, 

And  teach  their  "  thoughts  to  breathe,  their  words  to  burn ; " 

Judgment's  strong  lamp  emits  a  steadier  ray, 

And  Fancy's  sunbeams  blaze  a  brighter  day. 

Supremely  skilled  to  point  the  forceful  phrase 

Of  secret  rancor  or  ingenuous  praise ; 

Minutest  meaning,  studious  to  explain, 

Nor  let  a  particle  be  given  in  vain ! 

A  thousand  voices  swell  the  loud  acclaim ; 

A  thousand  voices  echo  FENNELL'S  name. 
All  hail,  thou  master  of  the  drama's  art ! 
Thou  necromancer  of  the  human  heart ! 
Thou  speak'st  the  word ;  —  it  glows  with  tenfold  heat, 
Thou  speak'st  again ;  —  its  pulses  cease  to  beat. 
With  wily  potency,  thy  skill  entwines 
The  charm  that  trances,  and  the  spell  that  binds. 
Like  the  weird  sisters  at  thy  MACBETH'S  word, 
The  subject  Passions  throng  around  their  lord. 
While  strong  Enchantment's  various  force  he  tries, 
These  sink  to  softness,  those  to  frenzy  rise ; 
Empowered  Despair's  dark  breast  with  Hope  to  cheer, 
And  wring  from  Cruelty  Compassion's  tear. 


TRIBUTARY   LINES,  13 

To  thrill  with  joy,  transfix  in  awe  profound, 
Melt  with  a  look,  and  madden  with  a  sound. 

But  bolder  yet ;  thou  dar'dst  thy  way  to  wind 
Throughout  the  devious  mazes  of  the  mind ! 
Nature,  here  too,  allowed  th'  advent'rous  claim, 
Herself  an  ARIADNE  to  its  aim. 
Led  by  her  clue,  and  with  her  ensigns  graced, 
The  human  labyrinth  her  champion  traced ; 
Where  each  crooked  purpose,  with  alternate  power, 
Becomes  the  Monster  of  the  darkened  hour. 
Where  embryo  mischiefs  nameless  ill  presage, 
Or  plagues  embodied  taint  a  present  age ; 
Where  the  brain  quivers  with  its  own  intent, 
And  guilt's  design  becomes  guilt's  punishment ; 
Where  crazed  Reflection  to  a  fiend  dilates, 
And  starts  from  furies  which  itself  creates ! 

Conversant  thus  with  moral,  mental  power, 
'Tis  these  have  taught  thy  genius  thus  to  tower ; 
More  than  thy  voice's  strength,  thy  awful  mien, 
Thy  frown  tremendous,  or  thy  smile  serene  ! 
Contemned  the  churlish  contrast  that  essays 
To  sink  the  player's  worth,  the  poets  raise. 
Restored  an  art  half  lost  by  false  pretence, 
And  proved  the  drama's  proud  pre-eminence ! 
So  rare  in  one  the  varying  gifts  unite, 
Our  country  thought  to  "  die  without  the  sight," 


14  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Myriads  indeed,  with  high,  theatric  rage, 
Or  mere  mechanic  art,  can  stalk  the  stage ; 
Can  leave  their  writer's  meaning  on  the  shelf, 
And  find  a  substitute  in  sapient  self; 
Till  broad  Burlesque  too  plainly  shows  his  face, 
And  struggling  Laughter  bids  Grief  give  him  place ; 
While  poor  MELPOMENE,  o'ercome  with  shame, 
Disowns  the  changeling  that  assumed  her  name. 
But  he  who  wears  his  author  deep  enshrined, 
Joins  heart  to  heart,  and  mixes  mind  with  mind  ; 
Feels  as  he  wrote,  enforces  all  he  taught, 
Quickens  perception,  and  embodies  thought ; 
Bear  witness,  Truth !  Scarce  such  an  one  appears 
Within  the  circuit  of  an  hundred  years. 
Though  scores  of  poets  graced  ELIZA'S  throne, 
The  perfect  player  was  a  prize  unknown. 
'Twas  this  conviction  Avon's  bard  impressed, 
To  task  with  foreign  aim  his  restless  breast, 
Made  buskined  JONSON  seem  the  wretch  he  knew, 
And  SHAKESPEARE  act  the  character  he  dreiv. 
Most  rash  and  vain !  Was  genius  e'er  assigned 
Without  some  limit  its  excess  to  bind  ? 
Enough ;  his  mind's  creative  daring  placed 
A  second  Eden  in  the  world  of  taste ; 
And  flowers  and  fruits  the  grateful  garden  crowned, 
And  human  nature  dignified  the  ground. 


TRIBUTARY   LINES.  15 

Here  sunk  his  strength ;  to  animate  the  whole 

Another's  power  must  breathe  THE  LIVING  SOUL. 

FENNELL  !  for  him  tliy  efforts  have  prevailed, 

And  gained  for  SHAKESPEARE  where  HIMSELF  had  failed ! 

MACBETH  had  still,  within  his  page,  'tis  true, 

Instructed  some,  perhaps  —  th'  attentive  few ; 

But  like  the  fated  writing  on  the  wall, 

That  told  Chaldea's  monarch  of  his  fall, 

By  most  unheeded,  had  enticed  in  vain 

From  the  rich  banquet,  and  the  mirth  profane ; 

Had  not  a  moving  hand  —  that  all  might  see, 

Beckoned  to  all — itself  a  prodigy ! 

Pointing  alike  the  menace  and  the  sign, 

The  acting  muscles  lived  along  the  line, 

Traced  each  strong  character  in  deepest  dye, 

And  forced  the  warning  on  the  startled  eye ! 

'Tis  hence  that  WOLSEY  proves,  by  thee  applied, 
A  living  lesson  on  th'  effects  of  pride. 
Hence  HAMLET'S  anguish  answering  anguish  found  ; 
And  hence  the  night  by  high  deserving  crowned, 
When  public  plaudit  told  the  ear  of  Fame, 
That  ROMEO  was  —  perfection's  other  name  ! 

Ere  thy  example  gave  our  actors  law,  — 
Remembrance,  aid  their  portraitures  to  draw ! 
Our  lovers  paid  their  vows  at  beauty's  shrine, 
With  smirking  simper,  or  with  whimpering  whine. 


1'G  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Oiir  heroes,  quick  to  desperation  driven, 

"With  ceaseless  storm  besieged  both  earth  and  heaven. 

Our  villains,  never  such  a  dangerous  clan ! 

Looked  dark,  talked  sentiment,  and  —  killed  their  man. 

Love,  shown  by  thee,  is  tenderness  sublimed, 
The  condescension  of  the  loftiest  mind. 
'Tis  JOVE,  who  bending  o'er  his  JUNO'S  charms, 
Smooths  his  dark  brow,  and  spreads  his  mighty  arms ; 
With  fondness  wins  whom  majesty  had  awed, 
And  is  at  once,  the  lover  and  the  god ! 

If  memory  e'er  disturb  the  spirit's  rest, 
Or  earthly  honors  please  th'  immortal's  breast ; 
Should  PERCY'S*  soul  recall  that  tort'ring  hour, 
When  from  its  frame  'twas  forced  by  MONMOUTH'S  power, 
Some  balmy  solace  for  the  wound  renewed, 
Had  soothed  its  pangs,  could  he  thy  powers  have  viewed ; 
When  beams  of  glory  round  thy  HOTSPUR  shone, 
That  Scotia's  chieftain  had  not  scorned  to  own. 

Thy  villain — hold !   No  villain  can  we  see ; 
E'en  ZANGA  wins  us,  when  performed  by  thee ! 
Moved  by  thy  plaints  of  his  disastrous  fate, 
We  melt  in  pity  o'er  the  wretch  .we  hate ; 
The  rising  curse  is  smothered  on  his  tomb, 
And  hell  implored  to  mitigate  his  doom. 

*  I  do  not  know  that  this  character  has  been  personated  by  Mr.  F.  on  the  stage.    To  those 
parts  of  it  given  in  his  recitations,  the  remarks  equally  apply.  t 


TRIBUTARY    LINES.  17 

And  shall  the  minstrel  cease  these  feeble  lays, 

Nor  touch  one  chord,  that  yields  thee  sweeter  praise  ? 

That  says,  —  whene'er  confessed  to  public  sight, 

Thou  play'st  some  motley  hero  of  the  night,  — 

Where  lights  and  shades  of  good  and  ill  combine  — 

Native  the  virtue  •  foreign  is  the  crime. 

Not  in  thy  acts  the  critic-eye  can  trace 

The  private  failings  of  the  Thespian  race; 

Nor  cynic-voice  the  contrast  rude  proclaim 

Of  mimic  honor,  and  of  real  shame. 

Whate'er  of  greatness  marks  thy  scenic  strife, 

'Tis  thy  best  praise  —  to  copy  from  the  life. 

Still  well-sustained  thy  arduous  part  hath  been 

Through  all  the  shiftings  of  its  various  scene. 

When  dark  Misfortune's  gathered  clouds  were  spread, 

And  winds  and  thunders  roared  around  thy  head, 

Like  thine  own  LEAR,  erect  th>  unshrinking  form 

Met  the  sharp  lightning,  and  sustained  the  storm. 

Still  strict  to  virtue's  as  the  drama's  laws, 
0  be  thy  meed,  thine  own  and  Heaven's  applause ! 
So  while  the  actor  "  bids  the  reign  commence, 
Of  rescued  nature  and  reviving  sense," 
The  man  shall  aid  the  efforts  of  the  sage 
To  mend  the  morals  of  a  miscreant  age ! 

VENOXI. 


18  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 


LINES, 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF   MRS.   WARREN,   FORMERLY  MRS.   MERRY,   OF   THE 
LONDON   THEATRE. 

[1808.] 

SHALL  Belvidera's  voice  no  more 
Lend  to  the  muse  its  peerless  aid, 

That  erst  on  Albion's  ingrate  shore, 
Soothed  Otway's  discontented  shade  ? 

She,  to  no  single  soil  confined, 

Sought  in  our  climes  extended  fame ; 

The  wreaths  of  either  world  entwined, 
And  taught  both  continents  her  name. 

Nor,  of  those  strains  that  crowds  have  hailed, 
Small  is  the  praise,  nor  light  the  gain ; 

Clio  can  boast,  such  sounds  prevailed, 
When  Faith  and  Freedom  prayed  in  vain. 

Such  notes  the  Mantuan  minstrel  owns, 
Long  lured  his  Trojan  from  the  main ; 


LINES   ON  THE  DEATH   OF  MRS.   WARREN.  19 

And  bleeding  Arria  in  such  tones, 
Assured  her  lord  she  "  felt  not  pain." 

Such  notes,  in  Eome's  delirious  days, 

Could  liberty  and  laws  restore ; 
Could  bid  "  be  still "  sedition's  waves, 

And  faction's  whirlwind  cease  to  roar. 

'Twas  by  such  suasive  sounds  inspired, 
The  matrons  pressed  the  hostile  field ; 

The  Volscian  hosts  amazed  retired ; 
The  proud  Patrician  learned  to  yield. 

Such  powers,  oh  had  Calphurnia  known, 
Great  Julius  all  unharmed  had  stood ! 

No  senate-walls  beheld  his  doom, 

Nor  Pompey's  marble  drank  his  blood  ! 

For  thee  —  though  born  to  happier  times, 
And  gentler  tasks  than  these  endured, 

Thy  voice  might  oft  prevent  those  crimes 

Which  e'en  thy  voice  could  scarce  have  cured. 

Although  no  civic  aim  was  there, 

Yet  not  in  vain  that  voice  was  given, 
Which  often  as  it  blessed  the  air, 

Informed  us  what  was  heard  in  heaven ! 


20  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Sure,  when  renewed,  thy  powers  shall  rise, 
To  hymn  before  th'  empyreal  throne, 

Angels  shall  start  in  wild  surprise, 
To  hear  a  note  so  like  their  own ! 


OCCASIONAL   ODE.  21 


OCCASIONAL    ODE. 

FIRST  of  all  created  things, 

God's  eldest  born,  0  tell  me,  Time  ! 
E'er  since  within  that  car  of  thine, 
Drawn  by  those  steeds,  whose  speed  divine, 
Through  ev'ry  age  and  ev'ry  clime, 

Nor  pause  nor  rest  has  known ; 

'Mongst  all  the  scenes  long  since  gone  by, 
Since  first  thou  op'd'st  thy  closeless  eye, 
Did  its  scared  glances  ever  rest 
Upon  a  vision  so  unblest, 
So  fearful  as  our  own  ? 

If  thus  thou  start'st  in  wild  affright 
At  what  thyself  hast  brought  to  light, 
0  yet  relent !  nor  still  unclose 
New  volumes  vast  of  human  woes. 
Thy  bright  and  bounteous  brother,  yonder  Sun, 
Whose  course  coeval  still  with  thine  doth  run, 
Sick'ning  at  the  sights  unholy, 
Frightful  crime,  and  frantic  folly, 


22  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

By  thee,  presumptuous !  with  delight 

Forced  upon  his  awful  sight, 

Abandons  half  his  regal  right, 

And  yields  the  hated  world  to  Night. 
And  e'en  when  through  the  honored  day 
He  still  benignly  deigns  to  sway, 

High  o'er  th'  horizon  prints  his  burnish'd  tread, 
Oft  calls  his  clouds, 
With  sable  shrouds, 

To  hide  his  glorious  head ! 

And  Luna,  of  yet  purer  view, 
His  sister  and  his  regent  too, 
Beneath  whose  mild  and  sacred  reign 
Thou  darest  display  thy  deeds  profane, 
Pale  and  appalled,  has  frowned  her  fears, 
Or  veiled  her  brightness  in  her  tears. 
While  all  her  starry  court,  attendant  near, 
Only  glance,  and  disappear. 

But  Thou,  relentless !  not  in  thee 

These  horrors  wake  humanity : 

Though  Sun,  and  Moon,  and  Stars  combin'd, 

Ne'er  did  it  change  thy  fatal  mind, 

Nor  e'er  thy  wayward  steps  retrace, 

Nor  e'er  restrain  thy  courser's  race, 


OCCASIONAL    ODE.  23 

Nor  e'er  efface  the  blood  thou'd'st  shed, 
Nor  raise  to  life  the  murdered  dead. 

Is't  not  enough,  thou  spoiler,  tell ! 
That,  subject  to  thy  stern  behest, 

The  might  of  ancient  empire  fell, 
And  sunk  to  drear  and  endless  rest  ? 

Fallen  is  the  Roman  eagle's  flight, 

The  Grecian  glory  sunk  in  night ; 
And  prostrate  arts  and  arms  no  more  withstand  ; 
Those  own  thy  Vandal  flame,  and  these  thy  conq'ring  hand. 
Then  be  destruction's  sable  banner  furled, 
Nor  wave  its  shadows  o'er  the  modern  world  ! 

In  vain  the  prayer.     Still  opens  wide, 
Renewed  each  former  tragic  scene 
Of  Time's  dark  drama ;  while  beside 
Grief  and  Despair  their  vigils  keep ; 
And  Mem'ry  only  lives  to  weep 
The  mould'ring  dust  of  WHAT  HAS  BEEN. 
How  nameless  now  the  once  famed  earth, 
That  gave  to  Kosciusco  birth, 
The  pillared  realm  that  proudly  stood, 
Propped  by  his  worth,  cemented  by  his  blood. 

As  towers  the  lion  of  the  wood 
O'er  all  surrounding  living  things, 
So,  'mid  the  herd  of  vulgar  kings, 

The  dauntless  DALECARLLAN  stood. 


24  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

'•  Pillowed  by  flint,  by  clamps  enclosed," 
Upon  the  mine's  cold  lap  reposed, 

Yet  firm  he  followed  freedom's  plan ; 
"  Dared  with  eternal  Night  reside, 
"  And  threw  inclemency  aside," 

Conq'ror  of  Nature  as  of  Man ! 

And  earn'd  by  toils  unknown  before, 
Of  blood  and  death,  the  crown  he  wore ; 

That  radiant  crown,  whose  flood  of  light 

Illumined  once  a  nation's  sight, 

Spirit  of  Vasa !  this  its  doom  ? 

Gleams  in  a  dungeon's  living  tomb ! 

Where'er  the  frightened  mind  can  fly, 
But  nearer  ruins  meet  her  eye. 

Ah !  not  Arcadia's  pictured  scene 

Could  more  the  poet's  dream  engage, 

Nor  manners  more  befitting  seem 
The  vision  of  a  golden  age, 
Than  where  the  chamois  loved  to  roam 
Through  old  Helvetia's  rugged  home  ; 
Where  Uri's  echoes  loved  to  swell 
To  kindred  rocks  the  name  of  Tell ; 
And  past'ral  girls  and  rustic  swains, 
Were  simple  as  their  native  plains. 
Nor  mild  alone,  but  bold,  the  mind, 
The  soldier  and  the  shepherd  joined  ; 


OCCASIONAL   ODE.  25 

The  Roman  heraldry  restored  ; 
The  crook  was  quartered  with  the  sword. 
Their  seed-time  cheerful  labor  stored  ; 
Plenty  piled  their  vintage  board ; 
Peace  loved  their  daily  fold  to  keep ; 
Contentment  tranquillized  their  sleep  ; 
Till' through  those  giant  guards  of  stone,* 
Where  Freedom  fixed  her  "mountain-throne," 
Battle's  blood-hounds  forced  their  way 
And  made  the  Human  Flock  their  prey ! 

Is  it  Fact,  or  Fancy  tells, 
That  now  another  mandate's  gone  ? 

Hark,  e'en  now  those  fated  wheels 
Roll  the  rapid  ruin  on  ! 

Lo,  where  the  generous  and  the  good, 
The  heart  to  feel,  the  hand  to  dare ; 

Iberia  pours  her  noblest  blood, 
Iberia  lifts  her  holiest  prayer ! 

The  while  from  all  her  rocks  and  vales 
Her  peasant-bands  by  thousands  rise ; 
Their  altar  is  their  native  plains, 

Themselves,  the  willing  sacrifice. 
While  HE,  the  «  strangest  birth  of  time," 
Red  with  gore,  and  grim  with  crime, 

*  The  Alps. 


26  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Whose  fate  more  prodigies  attend, 
And  in  whose  course  more  terrors  blend, 
And  o'er  whose  birth  more  portents  lower, 
Than  ever  crowned, 
In  lore  renowned, 
The  Macedonian's  natal  hour ! 

Now  here,  now  there,  he  takes  his  stand, 
The  'stablish'd  earth  his  footsteps  jar ; 
Goads  to  the  fight  his  vassal-band, 
While  ebbs  or  flows,  at  his  command, 
The  torrent  of  the  war  ! 

Could  the  bard,  whose  powers  sublime 
Scaled  the  heights  of  epic  glory, 

And  rendered  in  immortal  rhyme 
Of  Rome's  disgrace  the  blushing  story ; 
Where,  formed  of  treason  and  of  woes, 
Pharsalia's  gory  genius  rose  ; 
Might  he  again 
Renew  the  strain, 
That  once  his  truant  Muse  had  charmed, 

Each  foreign  tone 
Unwak'd  had  lain ; 
And  patriot  Spain, 
And  Spain  alone 
The  Spaniard's  patriot  heart  had  warmed ! 


OCCASIONAL    ODE.   .  27 

Then  had  the  chords  proclaimed  no  more 
His  deeds,  his  death  renowned  of  yore ; 
Who,*  when  each  ling'ring  hope  was  slain, 
And  Freedom  fought  with  Fate  in  vain, 
Lone  in  the  city,  'reft  of  all, 
While  Usurpation  stormed  the  wall, 
The  tyrant's  entrance  scorned  to  see, 
But  died  with  dying  Liberty. 

Those  chords  had  raised  the  local  strain ; 
That  bard  a  filial  flight  had  ta'en ; 
Forgot  all  else ;  the  ancient  past, 
Thick  in  oblivion's  mists  o'ercast, 
Or  past  and  present  both  combined 
Within  the  graspings  of  his  mind ; 
In  what  now  is,  viewed  what  hath  been ; 
The  dead  within  the  living  seen : 
Owned  transmigration's  strange  control, 
In  Spaniards  owned  the  Cato-soul ; 
And  wailed  in  tones  of  martial  grief, 
The  valiant  band  and  hero-chief, 
Who  shared  in  Saragossa's  doom, 
And  made  their  Utica  their  tomb. 

Bright  be  the  am'ranth  of  their  fame ! 

May  Palafox  a  Lucan  claim ! 

*  The  younger  Cato. 


28  POEMS    AXD   MISCELLANIES. 

That  bard  no  more  had  filled  his  rhymes 
With  Caesar's  greatness,  Caesar's  crimes ; 
Another  Caesar  waked  the  string, 
Alike  usurper,  traitor,  king. 
Another  Caesar  ?  rashly  said ! 
Forgive  the  falsehood,  mighty  shade  ! 
'Mong'st  Julius'  treasons,  still  we  know 
The  faithful  friend,  the  gen'rous  foe ; 
And  even  enmity  *  could  see 
Some  virtues  of  humanity. 

But  thou !  by  what  accursed  name 
Shall  we  denote  thy  features  here  ? 

In  records  of  infernal  Fame 
Where  shall  we  find  thy  black  compeer  ? 

Thou,  whose  perfidious  might  of  mind 
Nor  Pity  moves,  nor  faith  can  bind ; 
Whose  friends,  whose  followers  vainly  crave 
That  trust  which  should  reward  the  brave ; 
Whose  foes,  'mid  tenfold  War's  alarms, 
Dread  more  thy  treachery  than  thine  arms. 
The  Ishmaelite,  'mid  deserts  bred, 
Who  robs  at  last  whom  first  he  fed, 


*  "  His  enemies  confess 
The  virtues  of  humanity  are  Ciesar's." 

ADDISOX'S  CATO. 


OCCASIONAL   ODE.  29 


The  midnight  murd'rer  of  the  guest 
With  whom  he  shared  the  morning's  feast, 
This  Arab  wretch,  compared  with  thee, 
Is  honor  and  humanity ! 


And  shall  that  proud,  that  ancient  land, 
In  treasure  rich,  in  pageant  grand, 
Land  of  romance,  where  sprang  of  old 
Adventures  strange  and  champions  bold, 
Of  holy  faith  and  gallant  fight, 
And  bannered  hall,  and  armored  knight, 
And  tournament,  and  minstrelsy, 

The  NATIVE   LAND    OF    CHIVALRY  ! 

Shall  all  these  "  blushing  honors  "  bloom 

For  Corsica's  detested  son  ? 

These  ancient  worthies  own  his  sway, 

The  upstart  fiend  of  yesterday  ? 

0,  for  the  kingly  sword  and  shield 

That  once  the  victor  monarch  sped, 
What  time  from  Pavia's  trophied  field 

The  royal  Frank  was  captive  led ! 
May  Charles's  laurels,  gained  for  you, 

Ne'er,  Spaniards,  on  your  brows  expire ; 
Nor  the  degenerate  sons  subdue 

The  conq'rors  of  their  nobler  sire. 


30  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

None  higher  'mid  the  zodiac  line 
Of  sovereigns  and  of  saints  you  claim, 

Than  fair  Castilia's  star  could  shine, 
And  brighten  down  the  sky  of  fame. 
"Wise,  magnanimous,  refined, 
Accomplished  friend  of  human  kind, 
Who  first  the  Genoese  sail  unfurled, 
The  mighty  mother  of  an  infant  world, 
Illustrious  Isabel !    Shall  thine, 
Thy  children,  kneel  at  Gallia's  shrine  ? 
No  :  rise,  thou  venerated  shade, 
In  heaven's  own  armor  bright  arrayed, 
Like  Pallas  to  her  Grecian  band ; 
Nerve  ev'ry  heart  and  ev'ry  hand ; 
Pervious  or  not  to  mortal  sight, 
Still  guard  thy  gallant  offspring's  right, 
Display  thine  ^Egis  from  afar, 
And  lend  a  thunderbolt  to  war ! 

God  of  battles !  from  thy  throne, 
God  of  vengeance,  aid  their  cause  ! 

Make  it,  conq'ring  one,  thine  own ! 
'Tis  faith,  and  liberty,  and  laws. 

'Tis  for  these  they  pour  their  blood : 

The  cause  of  man  —  the  cause  of  God ! 


OCCASIONAL   ODE.  31 

Not  now  avenge,  all-righteous  power, 
Peruvia's  red  and  ruined  hour ; 
Nor  mangled  Montezuma's  head ; 
Nor  Guatimozin's  burning  bed  ; 
Nor  give  the  guiltless  up  to  fate, 
For  Cortez'  crimes,  Pizarro's  hate  ! 
Thou,  who  behold'st,  enthroned  afar, 
Beyond  the  vision  of  the  keenest  star, 
Far  through  creation's  ample  round, 
The  universe's  utmost  bound ; 
Where  war  in  other  shape  appears, 
The  destined  plague  of  other  spheres ; 
Other  Napoleons  arise 
To  stain  the  earth  and  cloud  the  skies ; 
And  other  realms  in  martial  ranks  succeed, 
Fight  like  Iberians,  like  Iberians  bleed ! 

If  an  end  is  e'er  designed 

The  dire  destroyers  of  mankind ; 

0,  be  some  seraphim  assigned, 

To  breathe  it  to  the  patriot  mind ! 
What  Brutus,  bright  in  arms  arrayed, 
What  Corde  bares  the  righteous  blade  ? 
Or  if  the  vengeance,  not  our  own, 
Be  sacred  to  thy  arm  alone ; 
When  shall  be  signed  the  blest  release, 
And  wearied  worlds  refreshed  with  peace  ! 


32  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

0  could  the  muse  but  dare  to  rise 

Far  o'er  these  low  and  clouded  skies, 

Above  the  threefold  heaven  to  soar, 

And  in  thy  very  sight  implore ! 

In  vain.     While  angels  veil  them  there, 

While  faith  half  fears  to  lift  her  prayer, 

The  glance  profane  shall  fancy  dare  ? 

Yet  there  around,  a  fearful  band, 

Thy  ministers  of  vengeance  stand. 

Lo,  at  thy  bidding  stalks  the  storm ; 

The  lightning  takes  a  local  form ; 

The  floods  erect  their  hydra  head ; 

The  pestilence  forsakes  his  bed ; 

Intolerable  light  appears  to  wait ; 

And  far-off  darkness  stands  in  awful  state ! 

For  thee,  0  time ! 

If  still  thou  speed'st  thy  march  of  crime, 
'Gainst  all  that's  beauteous  or  sublime ; 
Still  prov'st  thyself  the  sworn  ally, 
And  author  of  mortality ; 

Infuriate  earth,  too  long  supine, 
Whilst  demon-like  thou  lov'st  to  ride, 
Ending  every  work  beside, 

Shall  live  to  see  the  end  of  thine, 
Her  great  revenge  shall  see  ! 


OCCASIONAL   ODE.  33 

By  prayer  shall  move  th'  Almighty  power 

To  antedate  that  final  hour, 

When  the  archangel  firm  shall  stand, 

Upon  the  ocean  and  the  land ; 

His  crown  a  radiant  rainbow  sphere, 

His  echoes  seven-fold  thunders  near, 

The  last  dread  fiat  shall  proclaim : 

Shall  swear  by  His  tremendous  name, 

Who  formed  the  earth,  the  heavens,  and  sea, 

TIME  shall  no  longer  be ! 


34  POEMS    AM)   MISCELLANIES. 


TO    CHEERFULNESS. 

[  1810.] 

GODDESS  of  the  playful  mien ! 
Goddess  of  the  pleasant  scene  ! 
Of  Innocence  and  Peace  the  friend, 
Obedient  to  my  call  attend ! 

Come,  from  care  and  languor  free. 

Make  thy  blest  abode  with  me ! 

Grant  me  all  thy  magic  power 

To  beguile  the  dreary  hour ; 

For  thou  canst  blunt  misfortune's  fangs, 
And  cheat  e'en  anguish  of  its  pangs ; 

Then  come,  from  care  and  languor  free, 
Make  thy  blest  abode  with  me  ! 
Powerful  Goddess  steel  my  heart, 
Firm  t'  encounter  Envy's  dart. 

In  fortune's  smiles  or  frowns  the  same, 
If  free  from  all  deserved  blame. 
Then  come,  &c. 


TO    CHEERFULNESS.  35 

Heightener  of  Prosperity ! 
Soother  of  Adversity ! 
Thou  canst  bless  alike  all  hours, 
And  make  every  pleasure  ours ; 
Then  come,  &c. 

Come,  ever  welcome  to  my  heart, 
Come,  and  from  it  ne'er  depart ; 
Since  every  station  thou  canst  bless, 
With  peace,  if  not  with  happiness : 
Come,  &c. 

If  flowers  and  fragrance  are  not  found, 
In  every  path  of  life's  dull  round ; 
Yet  with  the  buds  and  blossoms  crowned 
We  tread  as  on  enchanted  ground. 
.Then  come,  &c. 

Should  Heaven  not  grant  my  ev'ry  claim, 
A  thousand  blessings  still  remain ; 
And  with  thy  aid,  I  yet  may  find 
Large  comforts  in  an  active  mind. 
Come  then,  &c. 


36  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Living,  I'll  confess  thy  power, 

And  love  thee  e'en  in  life's  last  hour ; 

When  Death,  dread  conqueror,  shall  inv" ade, 

And  every  charm  of  life  shall  fade, 

Smiling,  his  entrance  may  I  see, 

Upheld  by  Innocence  and  thee  ! 

Come,  then,  from  care  and  languor  free, 
EVER  make  thy  home  with  me  ! 


HYMN    FOR    FIRST    OF   MAY.  37 


A  HYMN,  FOR   FIRST   OF   MAY. 

[1809.] 

Lo  !  all  the  waste  of  Winter's  past  • 
The  darkened  sky,  the  ocean's  roar; 

No  more  is  heard  the  rising  blast, 
The  icy  fetters  bind  no  more. 

Lord  of  the  seasons !  may  we  raise 
Unblamed,  the  notes  of  worship  here  ? 

And  honest  hearts  and  cheerful  praise 
Welcome  the  seed-time  of  the  year. 

The  simplest  herb,  the  meanest  flower, 
Both  to  their  several  purpose  tend ; 

Each  insect  lives  its  little  hour, 
Each  Avorm  fulfils  its  destined  end. 

Then  even  such  as  we  may  dare 
To  ask  those  aids,  enabling  man 

Within  some  small  degree  to  bear 
His  part  in  thine  eternal  plan. 


38  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Not  of  the  humblest  be  it  said, 

They  ceased  to  join  the  social  strife, 

While  air  we  breathe  and  earth  we  tread 
Are  full  of  motion,  order,  life  ! 

For  knowledge,  plenty,  peace  bestowed, 
For  life  preserved  and  health  enjoyed, 

That  here  no  midnight  plague  has  come 
Nor  noonday  pestilence  destroyed  ! 

Supreme  Protector  of  mankind  ! 

To  Thee  may  we  our  praise  express ; 
And  next,  to  those  on  earth  assigned 

Thy  chosen  instruments  to  bless. 

0,  guide  us  o'er  life's  wintry  sphere, 
And  through  its  closing  shadows  bring 

To  know  in  Heaven's  eternal  year, 
Another  and  a  brighter  Spring ! 


A   PETITION.  39 


A    PETITION. 

[  1809.  ] 

I  ASK  not  pomp,  I  ask  not  power, 
Thou  Giver  of  all  gifts  to  man ! 

Nor  fickle  Fortune's  golden  shower, 
Nor  life  beyond  the  common  span. 

Grant  me  a  heart  to  good  inclined, 
That  gift  all  other  gifts  above,  — 

An  active  hand,  a  liberal  mind, 

The  hearts  and  lives  of  those  I  love  1 

And  0,  forbid  that  e'er  again, 

With  bleeding  heart  and  weeping  eye. 
I  mingle  with  the  mourning  train, 

Where  Friendship's  funeral  passes  by  ! 

Spare  me  but  that,  Almighty  Sire ! 

All  other  blessings  I'd  resign ; 
Let  not  its  flame  of  life  expire, 

But  last  beyond  the  date  of  mine ! 


40  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Should  toil  and  want  be  still  my  share, 
And  disappointment  and  disease, 

Still  more  my  wasted  form  impair, 

And  wrench  my  hold  from  peace  or  ease ! 

If  never  mine  to  know  the  joy 

To  draw  Detraction's  poisoned  dart, 

The  power  of  penury  to  destroy, 

And  cheer  the  stranger's  desert  heart ! 

Yet  may  not  merely  selfishness 
Exhaust  my  wishes  or  my  fears ; 

May  hardened  guilt  receive  my  prayers, 
And  misery  ever  have  my  tears ! 

And  still,  let  weal  or  woe  betide, 
May  that  fraternal  One  be  nigh, 

Who  rose  and  ripened  by  my  side, 

With  whom  I've  lived  —  for  whom  I'd  die  ! 

Then  give  —  nor  dare  I  ask  for  more  — 

A  righteous  life,  a  tranquil  end ; 
Till  raised  to  join,  when  these  are  o'er, 
t          My  Heavenly  Guide  —  my  earthly  Friend. 


ANOTHER  "CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR."  41 


ANOTHER  «  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR" 


[1809.] 

"  To  me,  like  Phidias,  were  it  given 

To  form  from  clay  the  man  sublime, 
And  like  Prometheus,  steal  from  heaven 

The  animating  spark  divine  ! " 
Thus  once  in  rhapsody  you  cried ; 

As  for  complexion,  form,  and  air, 
No  matter  what,  if  tliougld  preside, 

And  fire  and  feeling  mantle  there. 
Deep  on  the  tablets  of  his  mind 

Be  learning,  science,  taste  impressed ; 
Let  piety  a  refuge  find 

Within  the  foldings  of  his  breast ; 
Let  him  have  suffered  much ;  since  we, 

Alas  !  are  early  doomed  to  know 
All  human  virtue  we  can  see 

Is  only  perfected  through  woe. 


42  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Purer  the  ensuing  breeze  we  find 

When  whirlwinds  first  the  skies  deform, 
And  hardier  grows  the  mountain  hind 

Bleaching  beneath  the  wint'ry  storm  ; 
But,  above  all,  may  heaven  impart 

That  talent  which  completes  the  whole  — 
The  finest  and  the  rarest  art  — 

To  analyze  a  woman's  soul. 
Woman  —  that  happy,  wretched  being, 

Of  causeless  smile,  of  nameless  sigh, 
So  oft  whose  joys  unbidden  spring, 

So  oft  who,  weeps,  she  knows  not  why ! 
Her  piteous  griefs,  her  joys  so  gay, 

All  that  afflicts  and  all  that  cheers ; 
All  her  erratic  fancy's  play, 

Her  flutt'ring  hopes,  her  trembling  fears  — 
With  passions  chastened,  not  subdued, 

Let  dull  inaction  stupid  reign  ; 
Be  his  the  ardor  of  the  good, 

Their  loftier  thought  and  nobler  aim. 
Firm  as  the  towering  bird  of  Jove, 

The  mightiest  shocks  of  life  to  bear ; 
Yet  gentle  as  the  captive  dove, 

In  social  suffering;  to  share. 


ANOTHER   "  CASTLE   IN   THE   AIR."  43 

If  such  there  be,  to  such  alone 

Would  I  thy  worth,  beloved,  resign ; 
Secure,  each  bliss  that  time  had  known 

Would  consummate  a  lot  like  thine. 
But  if  this  gilded  human  scheme 

Be  but  the  pageant  of  the  brain, 
Of  such  slight  "  stuff  as  forms  our  dream," 

Which  waking  we  must  seek  in  vain, 
Each  gift  of  nature  and  of  art 

Still  lives  within  thyself  enshrined  ; 
Thine  are  the  blossoms  of  the  heart, 

And  thine  the  scions  of  the  mind ; 
And  if  the  matchless  wreath  shall  blend 

With  foliage  other  that  its  own, 
Or  destined  not  its  sweets  to  lend, 

Shall  nourish  for  thyself  alone, 
Still  cultivate  the  plants  with  care ; 

From  weeds,  from  thorns,  oh,  keep  them  free  ! 
Till  ripened  for  a  purer  air, 

They  bloom  in  immortality ! 


44  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 


TO  SARAH,  COUNTESS  OF  RUMFORD. 

WRITTEN  BY   REQUEST,   JANUARY,    1811. 

THE  winds  that  breathe  our  mansions  round, 

So  long  and  loud  that  Fancy's  ear 
Oft  hears  in  each  distressful  sound 

The  groanings  of  the  dying  year  — 
These  winds,  though  harsh  their  notes  we  deem, 

Ere  long  shall  sweep  a  softer  string  ; 
E'en  now  their  tones  but  preludes  seem 

To  merrier  music  from  the  spring. 
That  spring,  as  wont,  a  frolic  fair, 

Whene'er  she  treads  our  hills  again, 
Shall  tempt  thy  truant  steps  to  dare 

Once  more  the  perils  of  the  main. 
What  powerful,  what  resistless  hand 

Beckons  thee  o'er  a  waste  of  wave, 
Where  other  hills  o'ertop  the  land, 

Whose  borders  other  waters  lave  ? 


TO    SARAH,    COUNTESS    OF   RUMFORD.  45 

Thy  SIRE'S  ?  Ah,  then  no  longer  fail ! 

Cheer  him,  who  cheers  a  grateful  age ; 
And  winged  by  duty,  fly  to  hail 

At  once  the  father  and  the  sage ! 
Oft  the  false  lights  that  learning  shows, 

But  lead  the  Vildered  wretch  astray  ; 
The  meteor,  GENIUS,  often  glows 

Only  to  dazzle  or  dismay. 
A  nobler  image  pictures  him ; 

(No  baleful  star  in  vengeance  hurled ; ) 
The  CENTRAL  ORB,  whose  blessed  beam 

Not  only  lights  but  warms  the  world. 
Go  then !  —  yet  ah,  could  wish  of  mine 

Embodied  wait  upon  thy  will, 
'T  would  cause  the  sweetest  suns  to  shine, 

And  bid  the  boist'rous  gales  be  still ! 
Be  thine  the  tributary  hours 

That  Judgment  rules,  that  Taste  refines ; 
May  Art  present  her  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  Science  ope  her  thousand  mines. 
Farewell !  yet  one  request  remains  : 

When  Gallia's  gayer  scenes  are  shown, 
Forget  not,  'mid  her  fairy  plains, 

The  modest  merits  of  thine  own. 


40  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

The  humble  pleasures  deck  our  soil  — 

Pleasures  which,  simple  as  they  seem, 
Have  ever  mocked  the  worldling's  toil, 

And  fled  the  guilty,  gilded  scene. 
Wearied  with  flights  the  world  around, 

(Whilst  war's  red  deluge  drowns  the  rest,) 
The  doves  of  Peace  at  length  have  found 

Within  our  ark  a  sheltered  nest. 
Here  enterprise  and  toil  engage, 

And  friendship  firm,  and  awful  truth. 
Here  kindness  cheers  the  frost  of  age, 

And  counsel  checks  the  fire  of  youth. 
These  are  our  boast  —  nor  here  alone 

The  social  graces  love  to  dwell; 
But  hallowed  still  in  every  Jiome, 

The  hermit-virtues  find  a  cell. 
Here  Temp'rance  rules  our  vain  desires, 

Toil  lifts  —  Contentment  soothes  the  mind, 
And  holy  Hope  to  heaven  aspires, 

And  leaves  the  less'ning  world  behind. 

Oh,  love  this  land !   where'er  thou  art, 
Where'er  thy  wand'ring  feet  may  roam, 

Still  hither  turn  thy  constant  heart, 
And  fondly,  proudly,  own  its  HOME ! 


AN   EPITAPH.  47 


AN    EPITAPH 

ON   MRS.   MARY   H.   SHAW,   DAUGHTER   OF   JUDGE   HOWEL,   OF   PROVIDENCE. 

[1811.] 

HERE  sleep  the  charities  of  heart  combined, 

To  meliorate  the  energies  of  mind ; 

Where  purest  wit  and  liveliest  fancy  graced, 

And  reason  wore  the  ornaments  of  taste. 

With  her,  enthusiast  feeling's  warmest  flame 

Consumed  the  selfish  in  the  social  aim; 

Hers  the  firm  faith  that  calmed  the  flutt'ring  breath, 

And  hers  the  holy  hope  that  lived  in  death ! 

Mother  of  babes,  with  every  kindred  grace, 

And  equal  parent  of  an  orphan  race, 

Each  duty,  bliss  of  life,  within  her  call, 

She  felt,  fulfilled,  enjoyed,  resigned  them  all ! 

No  fav'rite  virtue  sparkled  in  her  breast 

With  fatal  brightness,  to  eclipse  the  rest ; 


48  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Like  yon  white  arch,  whose  stars  unite  as  one, 
Her  circling  virtues  blended  —  each  a  sun. 
When  ruined  health  found  aid  and  effort  vain, 
Nobly  she  triumphed  o'er  protracted  pain, 
And  sweetly  slumbered,  till  the  just  shall  rise, 
And  God  pronounce  her  welcome  to  the  skies ! 


YESTERDAY,   TO-DAY,   TO-MORROW.  49 


YESTERDAY,   TO-DAY,   TO-MORROW. 

[  1810.] 

ON  Hallow  Eve,  as  late  I  lay, 
And  vagrant  Fancy  chose  to  stray, 
She  met  the  Sisters  three 
Who  realize  the  tales  of  yore, 
Of  fabled  Fates  in  ancient  lore, 
Who  held  within  their  stern  decree 
What  was,  what  is,  and  what  shall  be. 

But  theirs  was  but  fictitious  power, 
The  idol  of  an  augur's  hour, 
Mythology's  fantastic  scheme, 
The  pagan's  pageant,  poet's  dream ; 
Far  din0 'rent  force  to  those  is  given 
Whom  late  I  met  on  Hallow  Even, 
On  whom  depends,  in  very  truth, 
All  vice  or  virtue,  joy  or  ruth, 
That  man  can  e'er  befall ; 


50  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

All  of  the  scenes  that  Life  we  call, 
All  that  makes  death  invite  —  appall, 
All  that  in  Heaven  can  hope  enthrall, 
Or  Hell  affright  withal ! 

The  elder  was  of  pensive  air, 
With  sable  eyes  and  jetty  hair, 
And  dark  brow,  darker  tinged  with  care, 
That  neither  joy  nor  peace  could  share. 
And  to  the  world,  she  seemed  to  quit 
With  ever  swift-retreating  feet, 
Small  notice  could  she  spare ; 
Yet  now  and  then  a  glance  was  lent 
To  mark  the  steps,  which  way  they  bent, 
Of  her  young  sister,  called  TO-DAY  ; 
But  as  those  steps  would  constant  stray, 
And  reckless  take  the  downward  path, 
Then,  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  wrath," 
She  turned  her  head  away. 

Slow  she  receded  from  my  sight, 

To  distant  domes  of  shadowy  night, 

To  reach  the  spot  where,  shrouded,  stood 

Her  family,  «  beyond  the  flood  ;" 

Nor  to  my  aching  voice  or  eye, 

Or  looked  regard  or  deigned  reply ; 


YESTERDAY,   TO-DAY,   TO-MORROW.  51 

But  still  that  saintly  form  and  mien, 
Solemn  though  mild,  though  sad  serene, 
Seemed  an  embodied  voice,  to  say 
Mortal !  my  name  is  YESTERDAY  ! 

The  second  of  the  kindred  race 
Received  from  heaven  a  livelier  grace ; 
With  health's  own  rose  her  cheek  was  dyed, 

Bright  was  her  hazel  eye, 
And  graceful  activeness  supplied 

The  place  of  majesty. 

But  truly  active  while  she  seemed, 

What  were  her  aims  no  soul  could  guess ; 

For  still,  in  Wisdom's  view,  'twere  deemed 
But  busy  idleness. 

In  careless  guise  she  roamed  around, 
And  picked  her  pebbles  from  the  ground, 
And  when  attained  the  worthless  store 
She  flung  them  by  and  gathered  more  ; 
And  all  her  actions,  as  her  thought, 
Life's  sunny  surface  only  sought, 
Nor  ever  searched  the  secret  springs 
That  move  beneath  the  face  of  tilings, 


52  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Though  latent  pearls  beneath  the  sand 
Awaited  but  her  seeking  hand, 
And  sleeping  diamonds  seemed  to  say  — 
Give  us  the  sun's  awakening  ray ! 

Thus  reckless  though  she  roved,  yet  near 
Methought  I  traced  the  frequent  tear ; 
And  that  she  noted  not  the  care 
Or  sorrows  of  the  elder  Fair, 
Was  not  that  (captious  or  severe) 
She  ceased  to  deem  that  sister  dear, 
But  that  her  fond  and  eager  sight, 
(That  else  its  glance  had  backward  turned, 

And  taught  it  there  to  rest,) 
Now  with  extatic  ardor  burned, 
And  darted  onward  on  its  light, 
Where,  seeming  just  from  Ida's  height, 
As  Hebe  young,  as  Venus  bright, 

TO-MORROW  stood  confessed ! 

There  in  a  vista  through  the  shade 
Above  whose  arch  the  sunbeams  played, 
The  fairest  form  that  e'er  was  seen 
Is  pranking  o'er  the  dewy  green, 
Peeping  each  mazy  walk  between, 
Or  playfully  intent  to  screen 


YESTERDAY,   TO-DAY,   TO-MORROW.  53 

That  dazzling  hair  and  angel  mien 
Amid  the  boughs  that  intervene ; 
Those  amber  ringlets  far  behind 
Wave  in  the  sportive  western  wind, 
And  ever  'mid  the  green  leaves  seen, 
Sparkle  like  fairy-light  between. 
But  with  her  mantle's  hues  so  fair 
What  tints  of  Nature  could  compare  ? 
'Twas  April's  once  —  so  poets  say  — 
But  Proteus  stole  the  robe  for  May, 
And  Iris  tinged  it  with  her  ray, 
And  Hope  had  borrowed  from  the  skies 
The  colors  for  those  azure  eyes, 
Whose  tempered  radiance,  softened  dyes, 

Allured  but  not  fatigued  the  sight ; 
And  seemed  a  sunny  orb  to  view, 
Wreathed  by  a  cloud  of  faintest  blue, 

That  swam  in  liquid  light ! 

0,  matchless  maid !  forever  hail ! 
Forever  thus  thy  power  prevail ; 
Each  former  inspiration  o'er, 
On  other  forms  I  gaze  no  more, 
Nor  wonder  that  the  world  agree 
To  slight  thy  sisters  —  worship  thee. 


54  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

For  sure,  without  thy  pitying  power, 
The  first  might  prove  the  final  hour ; 
And  each  his  fettered  life  would  free, 
But  for  the  blissful  hope  of  thee. 
As  clouds  the  present  scene  o'ercast, 
And  Memory  mourns  the  buried  past, 
The  future,  shown  by  thee,  appears 
Of  fadeless  joys  and  endless  years. 
Thou  bath'st  the  Christian's  aching  eye 
With  dews  from  a  celestial  sky ; 
Thou  calm'st  the  poet's  troubled  mind, 
Whisp'ring  "  the  world  will  yet  be  kind ;" 
Then  bid'st  before  the  patriot's  soul 
Visions  of  civic  glory  roll, 
When  ransomed  realms  shall  give  to  fame 
His  laurelled  bust,  his  pseaned  name ! 

Fairest  and  best,  accept  the  song ! 
To  thee  my  lays — myself  belong. 
All  other  thoughts  I'd  tell  to  flee, 
And  consecrate  my  soul  to  thee  ; 
All  other  cherished  loves  depart, 
Thou,  only  thou,  shalt  rule  my  heart ! 


AX   INSCRIPTION.  55 


The  following  lines  were  originally  entitled,  "  An  Inscription  for  a  Monument  at 
Richmond."  The  reflections,  however,  suggested  by  the  subject,  having  extended  be- 
yond the  limits  usually  allowed  to  inscriptive  composition,  they  are  now  offered  without 
a  name,  and  may  be  supposed  the  natural  effusions  of  every  mind,  on  contemplating 
the  scene  of  that  memorable  conflagration. 

[1812.] 

PILGRLM,  whose  pious  steps  have  led  thee  on, 
To  pause  and  ponder  at  this  sacred  shrine, 
Where  relics  rest,  of  sanctifying  power 
Greater  than  Mecca  or  Loretto  knew, 
Lo !  this  the  spot,  where,  at  the  very  hour 
Of  social  sentiment,  of  scenic  show,* 
When  eye  met  eye  participant  of  pleasure, 
As  passed  the  varied  forms  of  mimic  life, 
E'en  at  an  hour  like  this,  came  Death's  dread  angel, 
Shrouding  his  mystic  form  in  smoke  and  flame, 
And  still  dilating,  till  his  presence  filled 
Rapid  the  dome  —  through  blazing  fires  —  anon 
Through  deepest  darkness  —  here  his  mighty  arms 
Grasped  close  his  victims ! 

*  Conflagration  of  the  Richmond  Theatre. 


56  POEMS    AXD    MISCELLANIES. 

Pilgrim,  no  common  sigh, 
No  vulgar  tear !  Profane  not  dust  like  this 
With  aught  but  purest  griefs,  with  holiest  sorrows, 
Meet  for  the  good,  the  great,  the  brave,  the  fair! 
.  How  much  of  worth  —  worth  greatest  at  the  last ! 
If  e'er  thy  heart  throbbed  high  at  the  remembrance 
Of  him  who  bore  from  Illion's  heaven-doomed  walls 
And  smoking  battlements  his  aged  sire ; 
Or  her  *  who  sought,  in  Gallia's  guilty  hour, 
Death  with  the  friend  she  loved ;  or,  later  yet, 
The  glorious  Scot,f  whose  daring  aid  preserved, 
Spite  of  the  searching  flames  of  civil  war, 
Hundreds  of  hearts  —  who  shall  attest  his  praise 
In  earth  and  heaven !  0,  if  thy  spirit  stirred 
At  such  exploits,  look  here,  and  it  shall  own 
Kindred  pulsations.     Here  Affection  proved 
As  proud  a  triumph ;  undismayed  at  danger ; 
Strong  even  as  death,  and  dearer  far  than  life, 
Embraced  the  fiery  ordeal  of  her  faith. 
Think  on't ;  th'  admiring  thought  shall  flush  thy  cheek 
And  dry  the  dews  of  Pity.     Soothe  thee,  too, 
To  think  what  they  were  spared !   Not  theirs  to  totter 
Unto  the  utmost  verge  of  useless  life, 
And  tremble  on  the  brink,  dreading  to  go, 
Yet  unallowed  to  stay.     Not  theirs  to  feel 

*  Princess  de  Lamballe.  t  Duncan  M'Intosh. 


AS.  mSCBIPTION.  57 

Ling'ring  disease  —  that  slow  but  certain  poison, 

Perpetual  martyrdom,  incessant  death ; 

Nor,  what  were  even  worse,  if  worse  can  be, 

To  witness  such  decay — the  wasted  form, 

The  ruined  intellect,  the  fevered  brain, 

The  fitful  hectic  of  the  cheek,  succeeded  .       . 

By  pallid  hollowness ;  and  0 !  the  eyes 

That  roll  their  wild  dilated  orbs  around, 

Imploring  aid,  till  the  beholder's  heart 

Hails  with  a  kind  of  horrid  hope  the  hour 

That  ends  the  being  which  was  best  beloved ! 

God,  of  his  mercy,  spared  them  sights  like  these, 

And  gave  their  final  moment  one  brief  pang  — 

That  pang  the  first  and  last.     "  These  died  together, 

Happy  in  ruin,  undivorced  by  death." 

Their  love  so  powerful  was  not  left  to  dull 

On  earth's  low  cares  its  fervors,  but  preferred 

To  where  its  essence  shall  be  more  sublimed  — 

Its  extacy  exhaustless.    And  if  e'er, 

Stranger,  the  wretched  havoc  which  the  passions 

Too  often  make,  has  pierced  thy  pride  of  nature, 

'Twill  heal  thy  heart  to  know  they  here  asserted 

Their  native  rank,  primeval  destination, 

The  firm  allies  and  generous  guards  of  virtue. 


58  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

'Twill  raise  thy  hopes  of  man,  and  lift  thy  prayer 
To  Him,  who,  when  he  formed  our  beings  mortal, 
Made  them  immortal,  too  —  that  be  thy  call 
As  sudden,  thou  mayst  breast  thee  to  the  shock, 
And  buffet  Fate  as  greatly,  gallantly, 
As  those  who  perished  here ! 


STANZAS.  59 


STANZAS 


COMMEMORATIVE   OF   CHARLES   B.   BROWX,   OF   PHILADELPHIA,   AUTHOR   OF 
"  WIELAND,"  «  CIMOND,"  "  ARTHUR   MERVYN,"    ETC. 

[  1810.] 

COLUMBIA  !  mourn  thy  buried  son  — 
Fancy's  beloved,  the  Muses'  heir ; 
Mourn  him  whose  course  too  soon  was  run ; 
Mourn  him,  alas !  thou  ill  canst  spare. 

Mourn  thou  of  whom  the  tale  of  old, 
So  oft,  so  tauntingly  is  told, 
That  all  thy  earth-born  sons  refuse 
Alliance  with  the  heavenly  muse ; 

That  though,  o'er  many  a  warrior's  grave, 
Thou  bidst  the  trophied  banner  wave, 
And  rescued  realms  shall  give  to  fame 
The  laurelled  bust,  the  poeaned  name. 


60  POEMS   A3D   MISCELLANIES. 

And  though  thou  boast  on  glory's  scroll 
Of  patriot  worth  a  splendid  roll ; 
Their  wealth,  the  gain  of  equal  laws, 
Their  bribe,  the  boon  of  self  applause ; 

And  though  thy  ocean-hero's  name 
Revived  the  ancient  Decian  claim  ; 
While  e'en  the  Turk  can  point  and  tell 
Where  Somers,  Wadsworth,  Israel  fell ; 

Yet  of  the  sacred  sons  of  song, 
How  far  too  few  to  thee  belong  ; 
With  Pallas'  strength,  with  Hermes'  fire. 
Lovers  of  letters  or  the  lyre. 

Though  nature  with  unsparing  hand, 
Has  scattered  round  thy  favored  land 
Those  gifts  that  prompt  th'  aspiring  aim, 
And  fan  the  latent  spark  to  flame ; 

Such  awful  shade  of  black'ning  woods, 
Such  roaring  voice  of  giant  floods, 
Cliffs  which  the  dizzied  eagles  flee, 
And  cat'racts  tumbling  to  the  sea ; 


STANZAS. 

That  in  this  wild  and  lone  retreat, 
Great  Collins  might  have  fixed  his  seat ; 
Called  Horror  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
Or  Danger  from  the  deeps  below ! 

And  then,  for  those  of  milder  mood, 
Heedless  of  forest,  rock,  or  flood, 
Here  too  are  found,  the  pebbly  rill, 
The  honied  vale,  the  breezy  hill ; 

Gay  fields  bedecked  with  golden  grain ; 
Rich  orchards,  bending  o'er  the  plain, 
Where  Sydney's  fairy  pen  had  failed, 
Or  Mantuan  Maro's  muse  had  hailed  ; 

Yet  'midst  this  luxury  of  scene, 

These  varied  charms,  this  graceful  mien, 

Canst  thou  no  hearts,  no  voices  raise, 

Those  charms  to  feel,  those  charms  to  praise  ? 

Then  mourn  thy  Brown !  whose  ardent  mind 
Aonian  worship  early  joined  ; 
Who  chose  his  shrine  from  classic  bowers, 
His  lares  from  the  studious  hours. 


61 


62  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Amid  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
He  plied  the  strong  descriptive  pen, 
And  sketched  whate'er  within,  around, 
In  motley  vision  could  be  found. 

He  watched  of  livid  death  the  tread, 
And  marked  each  fated  shaft  that  sped ; 
He  crossed  destruction's  midnight  way, 
And  plagues  that  waste  in  open  day.* 

Nor  chiefly  here  his  powers  were  shown ; 
Each  lighter  theme  he  made  his  own ; 
As  Folly's  different  freaks  engage 
The  serious  or  the  smiling  sage. 

Where'er  his  lucid  colors  glow, 
Manners  and  life  the  portrait  know ; 
And  through  the  canvass,  fiction  deemed, 
Reality's  bold  features  gleamed. 

Nor  only  his  the  skill  to  scan 
The  outward  acts  of  varied  man ; 
But  his  was  nature's  clue,  to  wind 
Through  mazes  of  the  heart  and  mind. 

*  Arthur  Mervyn. 


STANZAS.  63 

The  moral  painter  well  portrayed, 
The  cause  of  each  effect  surveyed ; 
And  breathed  upon  the  lifeless  page 
The  informing  soul,  the  K  noble  rage." 

If  gifts  like  these  might  well  demand 
The  gen'rous  tear,  the  votive  hand, 
E'en  where  such  gifts  full  wide  prevail, 
In  Latium's  porch  or  Arno's  vale  ; 

Then  mourn,  my  country !  mourn  thy  son  — 
Fancy's  beloved,  the  Muses'  heir ; 
Mourn  him  whose  course  so  soon  was  run, 
Mourn  him,  alas !  thou  ill  canst  spare. 


64  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 


STANZAS. 


THE  writer  of  the  following  stanzas  was  importuned  by  a  friend,  some  time  since,  to 
supply  the  deficiencies  of  the  "  Ode  on  the  Passions."  It  was  replied  that  such  an 
undertaking  would  resemble  the  attempt  of  a  journeyman  carpenter  to  finish  a  statue 
of  Praxiteles.  The  request,  however,  being  renewed,  was  so  far  effectual  as  to  elicit 
this  fragment ;  not  as  a  presumptuous  endeavor  to  add  anything  to  Collins's  Ode,  but  as 
an  humble  distant  effort,  to  imitate  the  character  of  that  celebrated  production. 

[  1810.] 

BEHOLD  yon  monstrous  shape  appear ! 
The  Gorgon  head,  the  Danaides'  heart ; 

Their  stings  the  curling  serpents  rear, 
While  e'en  Ambition  owns  a  fear, 

And  Hope  and  Joy  depart. 
'T  was  Envy  dared  the  bower  invade, 
And  round  with  curious  eye  surveyed, 
To  where  the  Lesbian  lyre  was  laid, 
Buried  beneath  its  myrtle  shade ; 
That  lyre,  whose  strains  so  sweet,  so  strong, 
To  Sappho's  touch  alone  belong ; 


STANZAS.  65 

That  lyre,  whose  strains  so  strong,  so  sweet, 

No  voice  but  Echo's  dared  repeat. 

Yet  this  weird  wretch  presumed  to  strive 

The  lyric  spirit  to  revive  ! 

And  emulate  those  sounds  that  stole 

O'er  poor  Alcaeus'  subject  soul ! 

Remorse  approached ;  his  wasted  frame 

Feebly  on  trembling  knees  he  bore  ; 
Alike  in  sorrow  and  in  shame, 

Timoleon's  form  he  wore, 
(What  time,  from  Corinth  forced  to  roam, 
He  wandered  far  from  friends  and  home ;) 
With  gory  hands  he  struck  the  lyre. 

The  lyre,  indignant  at  the  wrong, 

Scorned  to  pour  the  soothing  song ; 
And  harshly  groaned  each  clotted  wire, 
Now  first  by  murd'rous  hand  profaned, 
Now  first  by  human  blood  distained. 
Back  sprang  the  wretch,  and  called  Despair 
To  end  the  strange  and  "  solemn  air ; " 
While  still  within  its  banquet  flies 
The  gnawing  worm  that  never  dies ! 


POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

The  next  that  came 
With  sinewy  arm  of  fight, 
And  ardent,  eagle-sight, 

Ambition  was  his  name 
Amid  the  band, 
With  lawless  hand, 
He  dared  aspire 

To  seize  famed  Memnon's  mystic  lyre, 
And  struck  those  hallowed  chords  of  fire, 

Long  sacred  to  the  Sun ! 
But  when  the  impious  deed  was  done, 
I  saw,  what  seemed  of  mortal  state, 
To  sudden  majesty  dilate  j 
I  saw  him  stretch  his  giant  form 

In  shadowy  length  athwart  the  sky ; 
His  rocky  forehead  clothed  in  storm, 

Bloodshot  his  dark  delirious  eye. 
While,  at  his  tocsin's  furious  sound, 
Loosened  demons  danced  around ; 
Joying  'mid  the  groans  profound, 
Of  Virtues,  slaughtered  on  the  accursed  ground ! 


A   RHAPSODY.  <»7 


A    RHAPSODY. 

TO   ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

[1812.] 

0,  THOU,  whom  we  have  known  so  long,  so  well, 
Thou  who  didst  hymn  the  Maid  of  Arc,  and  framed 
Of  Thalaba  the  wild  and  wondrous  song, 
And  in  later  tale  of  Times  of  Old, 
Remindest  us  of  our  own  patriarch  fathers, 
The  Madocs  of  their  age,  who  planted  here 
The  cross  of  Christ,  and  liberty,  and  peace  ! 
Minstrel  of  other  climes,  of  higher  hopes, 
And  holier  inspirations,  who  hast  ne'er 
From  her  high  birth  debased  the  goddess  muse, 
To  grovel  in  the  dirt  of  earthly  things ; 
But  learned  to  mingle  with  her  human  tones 
Some  breathings  of  the  harmonies  of  heaven ! 
Joyful  to  meet  thee  yet  again,  we  hail 
Thy  last,  thy  loftiest  lay ;  nor  chief  we  thank  thee 


68  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

For  every  form  of  beauty,  every  light 

Bestowed  by  brilliancy,  and  every  grace 

That  fancy  could  invent  and  taste  dispose, 

Or  that  creating,  consummating  power, 

Pervading  fervor,  and  mysterious  finish, 

That  something  occult,  indefinable, 

By  mortals,  genius  named ;  the  parent  sun 

Whence  all  those  rays  proceed ;  the  constant  fount 

To  feed  those  streams  of  mind,  th'  informing  soul 

Could  e'er  describe,  whose  fine  and  subtle  nature 

Seems  like  the  aerial  forms  which,  legends  say, 

Greeted  the  gifted  eye  of  saint  or  seer, 

Yet  ever  mocked  the  fond  inquirer's  aim 

To  scan  then:  essence ! 

Such  alone  we  greet  not, 
Since  genius  oft  (so  oft  the  tale  is  trite) 
Employs  its  golden  art  to  varnish  Vice 
And  bleach  Depravity,  till  it  shall  wear 
The  whiteness  of  the  robes  of  Innocence ; 
And  Fancy's  self  forsakes  her  truest  trade, 
The  lapidary  for  the  scavenger ; 
And  Taste,  regardful  of  but  half  her  province. 
Self-sentenced  to  a  partial  blindness,  turns 
Her  notice  from  the  semblance  of  perfection, 
To  fix  its  hood-winked  gaze  on  faults  alone, 


A   RHAPSODY.  69 

And,  like  the  owl,  sees  only  in  the  night ; 
Not  like  the  eagle  soars  to  meet  the  day. 

Oblivion  to  all  such !     For  thee  we  joy 
Thou  hast  not  misapplied  the  gifts  of  God, 
Nor  yielded  up  thy  powers,  illustrious  captives, 
To  grace  the  triumph  of  licentious  Wit. 

Once  more  a  female  is  thy  chosen  theme, 
And  Kailyal  lives  a  lesson  to  the  sex, 
How  more  than  woman's  loveliness  may  blend 
With  all  of  woman's  worth ;  with  chastened  love, 
Magnanimous  exertion,  patient  piety, 
And  pure  intelligence.     Lo !  from  thy  wand 
Even  faith,  and  hope,  and  charity,  receive 
Something  more  filial  and  more  feminine. 

Proud  praise  enough  were  this ;  yet  is  there  more : 
That  'neath  thy  splendid  Indian  canopy 
By  fairy  fingers  woven,  of  gorgeous  threads, 
And  gold  and  precious  stones,  thou  hast  enwrapped 
Stupendous  themes  that  Truth  divine  revealed, 
And  answering  Reason  owned  —  naught  more  sublime, 
Beauteous,  or  useful,  e'er  was  charactered 
On  Hermes'  mystic  pillars  —  Egypt's  boast, 
And  more,  Pythagoras'  lesson,  when  the  maze 
Of  hieroglyphic  meaning  awed  the  world  ! 


70  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Could  Music's  potent  charm,  as  some  believed, 
Have  warmth  to  animate  the  slumbering  dead, 
And  "lap  them  in  Elysium,"  second  only 
To  that  which  shall  await  in  other  worlds, 
How  would  the  native  sons  of  ancient  India 
Unclose  on  thee  that  wondering,  dubious  eye, 
Where  admiration  wars  with  incredulity  ! 
Sons  of  the  morning !  first  born  of  creation ! 
What  would  they  think  of  thee  —  thee,  one  of  us, 
Sprung  from  a  later  race,  on  whom  the  ends 
Of  this  our  world  has  come,  that  thou  shouldst  pen 
What  Varanasis'  *  venerable  towers, 
In  all  their  pride  and  plenitude  of  powers, 
Ere  conquest  spread  their  bloody  banner  o'er  them, 
Or  Ruin  trod  upon  their  hallowed  walls, 
Could  ne'er  excel,  though  stored  with  ethic  wisdom, 
And  epic  minstrelsy  and  sacred  lore ! 
For  there  Philosophy's  Gantami  f  first 
Taught  man  to  measure  mind ;  there  Yalmic  hymned 
The  conquering  arms  of  heaven-descended  Ruma ; 
And  Calidasa  and  Viassa  there, 
At  different  periods,  but  with  powers  the  same, 
The  Sanscrit  song  prolonged,  of  Nature's  works, 
Of  human  woes,  and  sacred  Crishna's  ways. 

*  The  College  of  Benares. 

t  Supposed  the  earliest  founder  of  a  Philosophical  School. 


A    RHAPSODY.  71 

That  it  should  e'er  be  thine,  of  Europe  born, 

To  sing  of  Asia !  that  Hindostan's  palms 

Should  bloom  on  Albion's  hills,  and  Brahma's  Vedas 

Meet  unconverted  eyes,  yet  unprofaned ! 

And  those  same  brows  the  classic  Thames  had  bathed, 

Be  laved  by  holy  Ganges !  while  the  lotus, 

Fig-tree,  and  cusa,  of  its  healing  banks, 

Should,  with  their  derva's  vegetable  rubies, 

Be  painted  to  the  life  !     Not  truer  touches, 

On  plane-tree  arch  above,  or  roseate  carpet 

Spread  out  beneath,  were  ever  yet  employed 

When  their  own  vale  of  Cashmere  was  the  subject, 

Sketched  by  its  own  Abdallah ! 

He,  too,  of  thine  own  land,  who  long  since  found 
A  refuge  in  his  final  sanctuary 
From  regal  bigotry,  could  thy  voice  reach  him, 
His  awful  shade  might  greet  thee  as  a  brother 
In  sentiment  and  song ;  that  epic  genius 
From  whom  the  sight  of  outward  things  was  taken 
By  Heaven  in  mercy  —  that  the  orb  of  vision 
Might  totally  turn  inward  —  there  concentrated 
On  objects  else  perhaps  invisible, 
Requiring  and  exhausting  all  its  rays, 
Who  (like  Tiresias,  of  prophetic  fame,) 
Talked  with  Futurity !  that  patriot 
Poet  of  Paradise,  whose  daring  eye 


72  POEMS  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Explored  "  the  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze," 
But,  blasted  with  "  excess  of  light,"  retired 
And  left  to  thee  to  compass  other  heavens 
And  other  scenes  of  being ! 

Bard  beloved 

Of  all  who  virtue  love  —  revered  by  all 
That  genius  reverence  —  Southey !  if  thou  art 
"  Gentle  as  bard  beseems,"  and  if  thy  life 
Be  lovely  as  thy  lay,  thou  wilt  not  scorn 
This  rustic  wreath ;  albeit  'twas  entwined 
Beyond  the  western  waters,  where  I  sit 
And  bid  the  winds  that  wait  upon  their  surges, 
Bear  it  across  them  to  thine  island-home. 
Thou  wilt  not  scorn  the  simple  leaves,  though  culled 
From  that  traduced,  insulted  spot  of  earth 
Of  which  thy  contumelious  brethren  oft 
Frame  fables,  full  as  monstrous  in  their  kind 
As  e'er  Munchausen  knew  —  with  all  his  falsehood, 
Guiltless  of  all  his  wit !     Not  such  art  thou  — 
Surely  thou  art  not,  if  as  Rumor  tells, 
Thyself,  in  the  high  hour  of  hopeful  youth, 
Had  cherished  nightly  visions  of  delight, 
And  day-dreams  of  desire,  that  lured  thee  on 
To  see  the  sister  States,  and  painted  to  thee 
Our  frowning  mountains  and  our  laughing  vales, 


A   RHAPSODY.  73 

The  countless  beauties  of  our  varied  lakes. 
The  dim  recesses  of  our  endless  woods, 
Fit  haunt  for  sylvan  deities,  and  whispered 
How  sweet  it  were  in  such  deep  solitude, 
To  talk  to  Nature,  but  to  think  of  man ; 
Then  thou,  perchance,  like  Scotia's  darling  son, 
Hadst  sung  our  Pennsylvanian  villages, 
Our  bold  Oneidas,  and  our  tender  Gertrudes, 
And  sung,  like  him,  thy  listeners  into  tears ! 

Such  were  thy  early  musings ;  other  thoughts, 
And  happier,  doubtless,  have  concurred  to  fix  thee 
On  Britain's  venerated  shore ;  yet  still 
Must  that  young  thought  be  tenderly  remembered, 
Even  as  romantic  minds  are  sometimes  said 
To  cherish  their  first  love  —  not  that  'twas  wisest, 
But  that  'twas  earliest.     If  that  morning  dream 
Still  lingers  to  thy  noon  of  life,  remember, 
And  for  its  own  dear  sake,  when  thou  shalt  hear, 
(As  oft,  alas !  thou  wilt,)  those  gossip  tales 
By  lazy  Ignorance  or  inventive  Spleen 
Related,  of  the  vast,  the  varied  country 
"We  proudly  call  our  own,  0  !  then  refute  them, 
By  thy  just  consciousness  that  still  this  land 
Has  turned  no  adder's  ear  toward  thy  muse, 
That  charms  so  wisely ;  that  where'er  her  tones, 


74  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Mellowed  by  distance,  o'er  the  waters  come, 
They  meet  a  band  of  listeners  —  those  who  hear 
With  breath-suspending  eagerness,  and  feel 
With  feverish  interest.     Be  this  their  praise, 
And  sure  they'll  need  no  other !     Such  there  are, 
Who,  from  the  centre  of  an  honest  heart, 
Bless  thee  for  ministering  to  the  purest  pleasures 
That  man,  whilst  breathing  earthly  atmosphere, 
In  this  minority  of  being,  knows ; 
That  of  contemplating  immortal  verse, 
In  fit  communion  with  Eternal  Truth ! 


DUXCAN  M'INTOSH.  75 


DUNCAN    M'INTOSH. 

To  offer  a  notice  of  this  departed  philanthropist  for  the  Christian  Disciple,  is  to  con- 
cur, it  is  believed,  with  the  objects  of  that  publication.  In  a  mercantile  community  it 
can  never  be  unreasonable  to  record  an  exception  to  the  sordid  spirit  of  accumulation  ; 
and  in  a  Christian  country,  it  must  always  be  salutary  to  contemplate  the  actual  intre- 
pidity and  elevation  of  the  Christian  character,  in  opposition  to  what  has  been  unfortu- 
nately asserted  of  its  abjectness  and  pusillanimity.* 

We  may  not  be  as  generally  apprised  in  this,  as  in  our  more  southern  capitals,  that 
Mr.  M'Intosh  was  at  St.  Domingo  during  the  sanguinary  revolution  of  1793,  which 
threatened  the  total  extermination  of  the  French  inhabitants ;  and  although  (as  an 
American  citizen)  he  might  have  departed  in  safety,  and  taken  with  him  the  whole  of 
his  large  property,  he  preferred  remaining  and  sacrificing  that  property,  together  with 
the  interesting  hopes  connected  with  its  acquirement,  to  the  preservation  of  the  pros- 
cribed. At  every  hazard  he  continued  during  eight  months  to  freight  vessels  at  his 
own  expense,  laden  with  these  destitute  fugitives,  to  the  number  of  nine  hundred  men 
and  fifteen  hundred  women  and  children.  At  his  subsequent  arrival  in  Philadelphia, 
a  gold  medal,  a  public  dinner,  and  every  demonstration  of  enthusiastic  respect,  were 
rendered  him  by  the  gratitude  of  the  exiles  he  had  saved ;  but  for  services  like  his, 
what  are  all  sublunary  rewards  ?  Remuneratio  ejus  cum  altissimo. 

[1821.] 

HAIL  !  son  of  ancient  Caledon ! 
Thy  race  is  sped,  thy  crown  is  won  ; 
The  voice  Supreme  thy  worth  must  tell ; 
Ours  only  utters  «  Hail !  Farewell ! " 

*  Vide  Paley  and  Tenyns. 


76  POEMS   AM)    MISCELLANIES. 

Oft  has  offended  Virtue's  frown 
Withered  the  chaplets  of  renown ; 
Struck  by  the  lightning  of  her  eye, 
In  their  first  blossoming  they  die ; 
And  incense,  fired  to  rise  for  years, 
Is  quenched  in  her  indignant  tears. 

Not  to  the  just  such  fate  is  given ; 
Their  laurel  is  the  growth  of  heaven ; 
Seed,  sown  amid  the  storms  of  time, 
Expands  in  that  unclouded  clime  ; 
The  Virtues,  guardian  angels  there, 
Make  the  immortal  plant  their  care ; 
And  heavenly  hands  its  leaves  suffuse 
With  moisture  from  celestial  dews. 
It  feels  the  Sun's  enliv'ning  ray 
Long  ere  he  gilds  our  distant  day, 
And  winds  from  primal  Eden's  vales, 
Breathe  over  it  their  balmiest  gales. 

And  never  tree  of  glory  there, 
Has  towered  more  fragrant,  full  or  fair, 
Than  that  which  waves  its  holy  flower 
O'er  Duncan's  high  immortal  bower. 
Thou  hero  of  an  holier  flame 
Than  boasts  the  ranks  of  martial  fame  ! 
Though  honored  still  that  steel  must  be. 
Which  strikes  for  lawful  liberty, 


DUNCAN  M'INTOSH.  77 

(Such  as  thy  Wallace  wont  to  wield, 

Defender  of  his  native  field  ;) 

Yet  happier  is  that  course  maintained, 

Whose  trophies  are  with  tears  unstained ; 

And  worthier  benisons  should  fall 

On  him,  above  each  narrower  call, 

Who  risked  his  life,  his  wealth,  his  all, 

With  charity  that  knew  no  bound, 

For  strangers,  on  a  foreign  ground  ; 

And  felt  the  outcast  alien  blend 

The  claims  of  clansman,  brother,  friend ! 

What  time  against  their  ancient  foes 

Dark  Afric's  race  like  demons  rose, 

Past  wrongs  with  present  strength  conspiring, 

And  memory  all  their  passions  firing, 

Till  mad,  and  madd'ning  all  the  throng, 

Freedom  a  Fury  raved  along, 

With  garments  rolled  in  blood  ;  with  hand 

Grasping  the  desolating  brand ; 

What  voice  but  thine  alone  could  dare 

Breathe  the  forbidden  word  —  to  spare  ? 

From  glens  and  caves  the  fugitive 

Could  look  to  thee  alone,  and  live ; 

Whose  shelt'ring  arms  a  rampart  spread, 

Stood  'twixt  the  living  and  the  dead, 


78  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

With  angel  eloquence  to  stay 
The  carnage  of  that  direful  day ! 

And  when  the  shield  that  saved  before, 
From  power  incensed  could  save  no  more, 
Thou  gav'st  the  meed  of  years  of  toil, 
To  waft  them  to  a  kindlier  soil. 
Vain  were  the  dungeon's  terrors,  *  vain 
The  threatened  scaffold's  penal  stain ; 
Ah !  vain  those  fonder  thoughts,  that  pressed 
For  mastery  in  thy  manly  breast, 
And  bade  thee  pause,  nor  forfeit  now 
The  nuptial  torch,  the  mutual  vow, 
The  social  hall,  the  festal  dome, 
The  comforts  of  the  hearth  and  home. 

0  happy  in  the  sacrifice ! 
For  what  the  suffering  to  the  prize  ? 
What  loss  of  all  that  earth  holds  dear, 
In  such  a  high  and  proud  career  ? 
Let  faith,  prophetic  faith,  portray 
The  glories  of  thy  rising  day, 
When  grateful  thousands  shall  proclaim 
Then*  kind  deliverer's  honored  name ; 
Sires  hail  him,  who  from  direst  rage 
Rescued  the  filial  props  of  age ; 

*  Mr.  M.  was  twice  imprisoned,  and  narrowly  escaped  death,  for  his  efforts  in  this  cause. 


DUNCAN  M'INTOSH.  79 

And  mothers  bless  the  arm  that  stayed 
From  infant  hearts  the  ruthless  blade ; 
While  from  before  the  mystic  throne 
Erst  to  the  seer  of  Patmos  shown, 
Sublimest  welcome  shall  accord 
Thy  great  exampler  and  thy  lord, 
"Who  onward  to  his  own  abode 
Through  sacrifice  and  suffering  trode ; 
Endured  each  earthly,  heavenly  loss ; 
Kenounced  a  kingdom  for  a  cross ; 
Cheerful,  himself  for  others  gave, 
And  lived  to  bless,  and  died  to  save ! 


80  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  OF  GOD. 

I  go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there  ;  and  backward,  but  I  cannot  perceive  him." 
[1824.] 

WHERE  art  Thou  ?  Thou  Source  and  Support  of  all 
That  is,  or  seen,  or  felt,  Thyself  unseen, 
Unfelt,  unknown ;  alas,  unknowable ! 
I  look  abroad  among  Thy  works  —  the  sky, 
Vast,  distant,  glorious,  with  its  world  of  suns, 
Life-giving  earth,  and  ever  moving  main, 
And  speaking  winds,  and  ask  if  these  are  Thee  ? 
The  stars  that  twinkle  on  the  eternal  hills, 
The  restless  tide's  outgoing  and  return, 
The  omnipresent  and  deep  breathing  air, 
Though  hailed  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less, 
Are  not  the  Power  I  seek ;  are  Thine,  not  Thee. 
I  ask  Thee  from  the  past,  if  in  the  years 
Since  first  intelligence  could  search  its  Source, 
Or  in  some  former,  unremembered  being, 
(If  such,  perchance  were  mine,)  did  they  belong  to  Thee  ? 
And  next  interrogate  futurity, 


INCOMPREHENSIBILITY   OF   GOD.  81 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 

Than  e'er  experience  owned  ;  but  both  are  mute, 

And  past,  and  future,  vocal  on  all  else, 

So  full  of  memories  and  fantasies, 

Are  deaf  and  speechless  here !     Fatigued,  I  turn 

From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements, 

And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  inward, 

From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  quest, 

If  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul 

He  may  vouchsafe  Himself —  Spirit  to  Spirit ! 

0,  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired, 

Pavilioned  still  in  darkness,  wilt  Thou  hide  Thee  ? 

What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate  — 

No  human  eye  may  look  on  Thee  and  live  ? 

Welcome  the  penalty !  Let  that  come  now, 

Which,  soon  or  late,  must  come.     For  light  like  this 

Who  would  not  dare  to  die  ? 

Peace !  my  proud  ami, 

And  hush  the  wish  which  knows  not  what  it  asks; 
Await  His  will,  who  hath  appointed  this 
With  every  other  trial.     Be  that  will 
Done  now  as  ever.     For  thy  curious  search 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him,  the  Unrevealed,  learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  brightest  hope  with  humbleness ; 


82  POEMS  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Pass  thy  noviciate  in  these  outer  courts, 

Till  rent  the  veil  no  longer  separating 

The  Holiest  of  all,  as  erst  disclosing 

A  brighter  dispensation,  whose  results 

Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 

E'en  to  the  perfecting  thyself,  thy  kind, 

Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude, 

By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  Heaven, 

Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart. 


LINES   IN   MEMORY   OF   THOMAS   F.    PALMER.  83 


LINES  TO   THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  F.  PALMER, 


BURIED    AT    BOSTON. 


[  1824. ] 

"  THOU  shalt  not  have  my  bones,"  the  Roman  said 
To  his  ungrateful  country.     Then,  as  now, 
Whoe'er  put  forth  the  patriot's  voice  or  arm 
Incurred  the  patriot's  penalty  —  proscription, 
Exile,  or  death.     Then  blush  we  not  for  thee, 
Whose  ashes  here  repose.     The  blush  be  theirs 
Who  doomed  thee  guilty  for  in  freedom's  cause 
Uttering  a  freeman's  voice  —  as  Sydney  erst, 
And  sacred  Milton  —  doomed  thee  to  the  hulk, 
And  desert  strand,  by  felons  companied ! 
(Was  not  His  doom,  who  spoke  to  free  the  world 
From  sin's  worse  thraldom,  to  the  odious  tree, 
With  malefactors  at  his  side  ?)  On  them, 
On  them  the  shame,  albeit  thine  the  suffering ! 
And  meet  it  was,  since  thou  wert  ne'er  again 
To  view  the  white  cliffs  of  thy  sea-girt  Albion, 


84  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

The  "  mighty  mother,"  who,  like  her  of  Colchis,* 
Has  sometimes  slain  her  sons ;  whose  fatal  ire 
Had  driven  thee  from  her  to  the  wilderness, 
With  brutes,  and  men  more  brutish  —  meet  at  last 
To  rest  thee  in  a  land  where  Priestly  rested, 
Like  him  a  witness  for  the  truth,  like  him 
An  exile  for  its  sake.     And  be  thy  meed 
To  mix  thy  dust  with  theirs,  the  pilgrim  sires, 
Men  after  thine  own  heart,  and  kindred  spirits, 
Whom  persecution  banished  in  their  day. 
Even  here  —  what  time  all  here  was  but  a  waste, 
With  its  fell  Indian  and  its  beast  of  prey  — 
Taking  their  turn  before  thee !  one  in  destiny, 
Confessors  of  the  same  heroic  faith, 
Martyrs  alike  for  the  same  righteous  cause  ; 
Rest  thee,  and  rise  with  them  ! 

*  Medea. 


THE   EASTERN   KING   AND    SOUTHERN   QUEEN.  85 


THE  EASTERN  KING  AND   SOUTHERN   QUEEN. 

(A  HEBREW  FABLE.) 

TO   MARY  PRINCE   TOWXSEJfD. 

[  1836.  ] 

HE  sat  upon  his  ivory  throne, 
The  mightiest  among  monarchs  known, 
Who  raised  Palmyra  from  the  wild, 
And  Balbec's  wond'rous  fabrics  piled, 

Wisest  among  the  sage ! 
Through  farthest  Ind,  whose  gifted  name 
First  on  the  rolls  of  ancient  fame, 
Jew,  Arab,  Moslem,  join  to  claim, 

E'en  to  this  distant  age. 
To  him  each  latent  cause  was  known, 
And  Nature's  mysteries  made  his  own, 
Nor  could  a  flower  its  incense  fling, 
Nor  reptile  creep  —  bird,  insect,  wing  — 
But  still  of  each  created  thing, 

He  knew  its  powers  to  call ; 
E'en  from  Libanus'  cedar  tall 
To  humblest  hyssop  of  the  wall. 


86  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

He  sat  upon  his  ivory  throne, 
And  royal  Balkis  near  him  stand ; 
She  who  proud  Nilus'  wave  subdued, 
Until  his  tributary  tide 
Had  her  vast  reservoirs  supplied, 
'  Whence  aqueduct  and  fountain  plied, 
Kefreshing  all  her  garden's  side  j 
She,  whom  the  judgment  trump  shall  raise 
With  Hebrew  souls  of  Herod's  days, 
By  bright  example  to  condemn 
That  hardened  race  of  ingrate  men  ; 
She,  high  in  soul  as  rank,  with  mind 
Enlightened  beyond  woman-kind, 
(Though  seas  and  deserts  spread  between,) 
Left  Araby  the  Blest,  to  find 

And  prove  the  far-famed  one. 
That  Fair  was  Sheba's  potent  Queen, 

That  prince  King  Solomon ! 
She  stood  the  monarch's  throne  before, 
And  either  hand  twin  garlands  bore, 
Where  Sharon's  rival  roses  show, 
The  paler  and  the  blushing  hue, 
The  various  tribes  of  tulips,  too, 
And  lilies  of  the  golden  view, 
With  that  more  modest  one,  that  grew 
Beneath  the  valley's  shelt'ring  shade, 


THE   EASTERN   KING   AND   SOUTHERN    QUEEN.  87 

And  drooped  its  bashful  bells  e'en  there, 
Lest  they  should  meet  the  gazer's  stare, 
And  that  one  blent  with  either  skin, 
Snowy  without  and  gold  within, 
Who  shamed  that  Nature  ne'er  supplied 
A  leafy  covering  for  its  side, 
Is  fain  its  naked  stem  to  hide 
Beneath  the  lake's  encircling  tide. 

There  the  Carnation  lent  its  share ; 

There  blossomed  the  Narcissus  fair ; 

The  Almond  bud  breathed  fragrance  there, 

And  passing  all,  the  rich  Gulnare  !  * 
These  flowers  Arabia's  sovereign  bore, 
As  Judah's  lord  she  bowed  before, 
And  held  them  up  to  view. 

0,  live  forever,  glorious  king ! 
Behold,  the  rural  wreaths  I  bring 

In  form  and  tint  have  vied ; 
But  one  its  quickening  substance  drew 
From  Salem's  soil,  and  sun,  and  dew ; 
And  one,  with  imitation  true, 

I  and  my  maidens  dyed ! 
And  now,  0  king,  consult  thine  eyes,  * 
As  thou  art  wisest  of  the  wise, 

*  Name  of  the  Pomegranate's  blossom. 


88  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

And  tell,  according  to  thy  thought, 
Which  is  the  chaplet  we  have  wrought, 

And  which  is  Nature's  hand  ? 
This  boon  thy  handmaid  to  command 
Asks  humbly  at  thy  royal  hand, 
Who,  since  she  ne'er  a  suit  preferred 
But  thou  most  graciously  hast  heard, 

Not  now  must  ask  in  vain ; 
And  spices,  richer  far,  and  more 
Than  those  she  lately  hither  bore, 
(Though  Israel  saw  not  such  before,) 

Shall  be  thy  royal  gain." 

She  ceased,  but  still  her  glance  confessed 
The  frolic  feeling  of  her  breast, 
Where  secret  triumph,  ill  suppressed, 
Through  mimic  deference  shone  confessed. 
Ceased  she,  and  on  the  ground  her  eye 
Demurely  cast,  while  waiting  by 
Stood  Judah's  court  its  monarch  nigh, 
Marvelling  that  daring  dame  should  try 
Their  king's  sagaciousness  defy. 
Awhile  the  monarch  paused  and  smiled 
To  see  his  sapience  half  beguiled 
By  woman's  sprightlier  wile. 


THE   EASTERN   KING   AND   SOUTHERN    QUEEN.  89 

"  And  hast  thou  proved  this  curious  toil, 
Queen  of  the  South !  my  skill  to  foil  ? 

Well  may  thy  friend  admire ! 
And  frankly  to  thee  be  it  known 
That  by  no  wisdom  of  our  own 
Could  any  difference  here  be  shown; 
But,  (as  thou  know'st,)  thy  subjects  tell 
That  mystic  call  and  powerful  spell 
Force  from  the  spirits,  at  our  will, 
Their  aid  of  more  than  mortal  skill 

When  our  behests  require, 
And  there  be  tenants  of  the  air 
Who  make  King  Solomon  their  care." 

With  that  the  monarch  gave  command, 
Within  the  queen  had  fixed  her  stand, 
That  all  the  palace  windows  wide 
Be  opened  free  on  every  side ; 
When,  lo  !  the  insect  chemists  there, 
Whose  skill  compounds  the  sweetest  fare, 
Rifling  from  dawn  to  day's  full  prime 
Through  balmiest  bowers  of  Palestine, 

Nearer  and  louder  hum, 
Till  to  the  regal  presence  hall, 
As  conscious  of  its  owner's  call, 

The  revellers  have  come  ! 


90  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Following  the  vegetable  lure, 
With  instinct  sensitive  and  sure, 
Past  the  fictitious  wreath  they  flew, 
And  clustered  jocund  round  the  true, 
Whilst  shouts  th'  exultant  crowd,  to  see 
Their  sovereign's  ingenuity, 

-  Who  thus  —  "  Bear  witness,  royal  Fair ! 
These  counsellors  from  upper  air 
Thus  aid  me  judgment  to  declare." 

"  No  more,  my  lord !  the  gums  are  thine." 

"  Lady,  their  fragrance  I  resign ; 
The  wreath  —  THY  WREATH  —  alone  be  mine ! " 

To  thee,  dear  girl,  what  need  to  tell 
The  moral  thou  hast  proved  so  well  ? 

In  whom  together  meet, 
What  jointly  must  their  powers  dispense 
To  satisfy  a  sapient  sense, 

The  useful  with  the  sweet ! 


A   VISION.  91 


A    VISION. 

[  1832.  ] 

"  And  when  the  fit  was  on  him  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake  —  't  is  true  —  this  god  did  shake  ; 
His  coward  tips  did  from  their  color  fly, 
And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 
Did  lose  its  lustre."  SHAKSPEARE. 

TIME  hath  been 

When  dreams  were  oracles,  and  slumber  proved 
The  source  of  inspiration ;  when  the  senses 
Fast  locked  to  all  below,  the  soul  was  free 
For  impress  from  on  high,  and  man  awoke 
Fraught  with  futurity  —  to  nations  round 
Herald  and  chronicle  of  coming  years. 
This  is  the  world's  beginning ;  but  for  us, 
On  whom  its  ends  have  come,  our  dreams  concern  not 
The  future,  but  the  past ;  the  mind  revolves  it 
In  hours  of  consciousness,  and  the  mood  holds 
When  bathed  by  Sleep  in  her  lethargic  dews. 


92  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

And  mine  was  such  a  vision,  when  in  spirit 

I  looked,  and  lo !  before  me  rose  that  isle, 

Whose  rocky  base  is  worn  by  waves  that  bore 

The  barque  of  Gama  on  its  vent'rous  way, 

To  climes  beyond  the  Ganges  and  the  morn. 

I  scaled  its  cliffs,  and  heard  the  sea-bird  shriek 

Around  its  dizzy  promontory ;  thence 

Stooped  to  its  shadier  vale,  admiring  oft 

The  culture  that  to  vegetative  bloom 

Could  force  that  sterile  soil.     And  I  bethought  me 

Of  him,  the  wretched  Lusian,*  to  this  spot 

Self-exiled,  victim  of  his  own  misdeeds, 

And  Albuquerque's  barbarian  policy. 

Scorning  to  carry  his  disfigured  front 

Among  his  former  peers,  or  leave  at  last 

A  mutilated  corpse  to  fill  its  niche 

Amid  his  fathers'  sepulchres ;  abjuring 

Country,  connections,  friends,  and  kindred  dust, 

He  hid  him  here ;  and  trained  the  vine,  and  taught 

The  various  plants  of  Europe,  like  himself, 

To  bear  a  foreign  home ;  striving  by  toil 

*  Fernandez  Lopez,  a  Portuguese  nobleman,  who,  after  the  victory  at  Goa,  was  punished  cru- 
elly for  his  apostacy  to  the  Moors,  by  having  his  nose  and  ears  slit  —  at  the  command  of  the  Gov- 
ernor General —  a  stain  on  that  otherwise  magnanimous  character.  Instead  of  being  sent  home, 
Lopez  was,  at  his  own  request,  landed  on  this  island,  in  the  year  1513,  twelve  years  after  its  first 
discovery  by  John  de  Nova,  and  fifteen  after  de  Gama  had  first  doubled  the  southern  promontory 
of  Africa.  To  Lopez  the  island  is  said  to  have  been  indebted  for  most  of  its  early  cultivation. 


A   VISION.  93 

On  the  hard  face  of  earth  —  less  cursed  to  him 

Than  was  the  face  of  man  —  to  dispossess 

From  their  stronghold  the  demons  of  remorse, 

Despair,  and  madd'ning  memory.     Little  thought  he, 

Another  and  more  memorable  exile 

Should,  centuries  after,  pace  his  bowers  among, 

And  haply  gather  the  perennial  fruits 

His  hand  had  early  scattered !     But  such  thoughts 

And  all  beside  gave  way,  when  I  beheld, 

Within  his  martial  couch  and  warrior  shroud, 

The  Evil  Genius  of  the  present  time 

Taking  his  final  leave  of  it,  henceforth 

Part  of  eternity !     Already  settled 

Its  awful  shadows  round  his  brow,  and  closed 

His  sunken  eyelids.     One  by  one  each  sense 

Had  yielded  up  its  function.     Can  it  be  ? 

This  powerless  arm  belonged  to  him,  who  proved 

In  very  deed  the  Syracusan's  project, 

And  tossed  the  globe  ?     This  swoln  and  stiff 'ning  form  — 

Is  this  the  same  whose  fatal  activeness 

Was  felt,  when,  from  the  Tiber  to  the  Nile, 

Echoed  his  trumpet  and  his  tread  ?     The  Alps 

Frowned  as  their  everlasting  snows  reflected 

The  lightning  of  his  steel ;  and  the  hot  desert, 

Through  all  its  vast  and  sandy  solitudes, 

Has  shook  to  hear  his  rolling  thunders  waken 


94  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

The  slumber  of  the  pyramids.     But  no ! 

'T  is  fable  —  in  the  nineteenth  age,  nay  more, 

In  one,  the  star  of  whose  nativity 

Rose  in  the  same  horizon  with  our  own  — 

That  such  things  were  —  and  this  is  all  a  dream. 

Would  it  were  but  a  dream !     And,  sure,  't  would  seem  so, 

Did  not  Marengo,  Jena,  Austerlitz, 

And  Lodi's  bridge,  and  Berezina's  flood, 

All  rife  with  fate,  attest  its  verity 

With  many  a  dread  memorial ! 

But  not  now, 

In  presence  of  thy  bier,  would  we  call  up 
The  list  of  thine  offences.     Gone  thy  victims, 
And  gone  thyself  beyond  all  human  audit. 
The  execrations  that  had  reached  thee  once 
Are  stilled,  for  thou  art  still ;  and  Death  has  made 
Inviolable  peace  'twixt  thee  and  man. 
Thy  bier  has  moved  the  mem'ry  from  thy  sins 
To  trace  thy  sufferings.     Never  change  like  thine  ! 
The  arbiter  of  Europe's  destinies 
A  suppliant  for  his  own ;  and  he  who  found 
A  continent  too  narrow  for  his  march, 
Now  cramped  in  one  small  isle.     The  mighty  one, 
Who  set  his  foot  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 
And  bade  them  do  him  homage  for  their  crowns, 
Now  destined  to  endure,  while  he  despised, 


A   VISION.  95 

A  courtly  minion's  petty  despotism, 
Proud,  like  the  keeper  of  the  Lybian  lion, 
Who  lords  it  o'er  the  royal  brute  with  tyranny, 
Teasing,  yet  trifling. 

Thine  imperial  bride, 

Who  would  have  shared  thy  banishment,  denied  thee ; 
And  thy  bright  son,  whose  "  baby  brow  "  had  worn 
So  soon  "  the  round  and  top  of  sovereignty," 
No  more  to  greet  his  sire.     And  grant  thy  heart 
Less  meet  than  others  for  familiar  ties, 
Still  it  was  human,  and  as  such  has  felt 
When  that  the  right  the  veriest  peasant  holds 
To  commune  with  his  own,  was  reft  from  thee ! 

Through  opening  ranks  that  line  the  long  parade 
Onward  the  funeral  car  has  moved,  and  now 
Adown  the  steep  the  soldiers'  arms  have  borne 
Their  fellow  soldier ;  long  the  grenadier 
Shall  boast  this  burden !     In  thy  stony  chamber 
They  rest  thee  now,  while  robed  and  mitred  priests 
Lift  high  the  prayer  and  consecrate  the  tomb ; 
And  thrice  from  cliff  to  cliff  the  cannon's  peal 
Reverberates  long  and  loudly ;  while  between, 
From  the  far  distant  ship,  the  groaning  gun 
Sends  its  according  sound  the  ocean  o'er, 
Startling  the  Spirit  of  the  stormy  Cape, 


96  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

To  call  his  tempests  round  him  for  reply 
To  such  strange  menaces. 

And  they  have  sealed 

The  stone,  and  set  the  watch ;  lest  e'en  thy  bones, 
Thy  very  skin,  like  the  Bohemian's,  minister 
To  mortal  fray.     So  thy  career  has  closed ; 
A  thing  to  meditate  and  marvel  at. 
For  we  but  see  events ;  where  tend  their  issues, 
Presumptuous  we  pronounce  not,  nor  decipher 
The  mystic  characters  by  Providence 
Stamped  on  the  scroll  that  holds  his  high  decrees, 
Unmeet  for  man  to  utter !     This  is  plain  — 
All  lust  of  power  was  not  concentrated 
In  him  whom  St.  Helena  sepulchred, 
When  Austria  treads  the  spark  of  freedom  out 
That  Italy  had  kindled.     When  the  Czar 
Joins  with  the  turbaned  miscreant  'gainst  those  Greeks 
Who  rose  to  wrest  the  field  of  Marathon 
From  Moslem  profanation.     Thou  dead  one ! 
It  were  enough  to  have  compelled  thy  features 
To  smile  Sardonic,  when  the  holy  league 
Thus  gave  the  lie  to  its  own  protestations, 
And  to  the  faith  of  all  those  credulous  ones 
Who  put  their  trust  in  princes.     But  for  thee ! 
Who  shall  attempt  thine  epitaph  ?  —  and  when  ? 
All  have  heard  evil  of  thee,  but  the  day 


A   VISION.  97 

Has  not  yet  dawned  when  what  was  good  as  truly 

Shall  be  recorded.     Sure  thou  hadst  thy  good  ; 

Impious  it  were  to  think  the  Godhead's  image 

Impressed  on  man  could  e'er  be  wholly  lost ! 

Witness  their  love,  whose  self-devotedness 

Clung  to  thy  shipwrecked  barque,  with  hold  as  firm 

As  when  triumphantly  it  rode  the  surges, 

With  all  its  canvas  and  its  streamers  out, 

Favored  by  wind  and  tide.     Nor  desperate  these 

With  momentary  fervor ;   steadily 

They  followed  to  thy  prison-house ;  for  thee 

Renounced  the  world  ;  endured  the  wayward  moods 

Of  fallen  grandeur  and  of  wasting  nature ; 

Nor  left  till  life  had  left.     In  Wisdom's  view 

'Twere  worth  the  price  of  both  thy  diadems 

To  prove  such  friendship !  —  this,  of  all  thy  honors 

Most  to  be  coveted.     Thou  hadst  thy  good ; 

For  splendid  Art  and  philosophic  Science 

Owned  thee  their  patron ;  and  thy  height  of  power, 

If  wrongly  gained,  was  rightly  used  for  purposes 

Of  wisest  legislation.     For  ourselves, 

Who  sit  in  judgment  on  thy  deeds,  have  we 

Looked  to  our  own  ?     The  lesson  of  thy  life 

Learned  we  from  thence,  who  claim  a  worthier  course, 

A  holier  prize,  to  copy  into  ours 

That  vigilance,  and  zeal,  and  perseverance  ; 


98  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

That  energy  unquenchable  —  unnerved 

By  no  defeat,  by  no  confinement  cooled  ; 

(As  Elba  saw,  and  vaunted  Waterloo, 

Where  many  raised  'gainst  one  scarce  wrought  his  fall.) 

Then  were  the  social  weal  with  half  that  ardor 

But  sought,  as  was  the  selfish,  then,  indeed, 

Thou  hadst  not  lived  in  vain,  but  might'st  repair 

The  wrong  thou  didst  humanity.     An  influence 

Strenuous  and  righteous  thus,  through  the  new  earth, 

Might  mould  a  race  of  men,  the  like  of  whom 

The  sun  ne'er  looked  upon ;  who,  if  he  stopped 

His  swift  career  a  day  in  Ajalon, 

Lured  by  a  hero's  call,  a  hero's  deed, 

At  such  a  sight  as  this  would  gaze  forever, 

And  night  be  known  no  longer. 


A   BALLAD.  99 


A    BALLAD 

OCCASIONED   BY   THE   LATE   FATAL   COMBAT*   OX   THE   MARYLAND    BORDER. 

[  1823.  ] 

AND  tkou  too  gone !  —  whose  name  can  raise 

The  Spirits  of  romantic  rhyme, 
The  legends  of  departed  days, 

The  chronicle  of  elder  time  ; 

Art  thou  THUS  gone  ?  —  who  haply  placed 

In  sable  Edward's  warlike  age, 
Chaucer's  chivalric  lines  had  graced, 

Or  sparkled  from  Froissart's  page  !  — 

For  not  in  camp  or  tourney  high, 

Could  knight  or  noble  e'er  be  seen, 
Of  manlier  form  or  keener  eye, 

More  dauntless  heart  or  courteous  mien. 

*  The  duel  between  Commodores  Decatur  and  Barren,  which  resulted  in  the  death  of  the  former. 


100  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

And  ne'er  was  fealty  more  strong 
In  vassal  train  of  feudal  lord, 

Than  glowed  among  that  hardier  throng 
Who  waited  on  thy  martial  word. 

Witness  his  deeds  whose  prompt  relief 
'Twixt  thee  and  fate,  sprang  undismayed, 

With  his  own  forehead  fenced  his  chief, 
And  met  the  Moslem's  cleaving  blade  ! 

Glory  to  both !  to  him  whose  zeal 
With  loyal  heart  could  burn  so  high ; 

To  thee  who  sought  the  seaman's  weal 
Till  for  thy  sake  he  dared  to  die. 

Where  naval  Carthage  towered  sublime, 
Cumbers  the  mosque  degen'rate  earth  ; 

And  dozing  beys  debase  the  clime 
Where  Hannibal  received  his  birth. 

Where  old  Phenicia's  friendly  sails 
Afar  her  gen'rous  products  bore, 

Our  age  beheld  the  recr'ant  gales 
Waft  to  his  prey  the  robber  Moor. 


A   BALLAD.  101 

The  oath  that  bound  Hamilian's  heir, 

On  Rome  alone  its  vengeance  hurled  ; 
More  fell  than  Punic  ruffian's  swear  — 

Eternal  wrath  to  all  the  world. 

And  emp'rors,  kings,  and  prince  or  peers, 

The  Briton,  Spaniard,  Belgian,  Gaul, 
Had  warred  for  half  a  hundred  years 

To  break  that  yoke  that  foiled  them  all. 

E'en  there  our  mountain  eagle  flew, 

Fresh  in  his  fierceness  from  the  West, 
Kept  his  bold  course,  untired  and  true, 

And  soared  above  the  Moorish  crest. 

Through  black'ning  tempests  round  him  thrown, 

His  stormy  baldrick  scattered  day, 
And  as  its  conq'ring  splendors  shone, 

Trembled  the  crescent's  pallid  ray. 

Amid  that  glorious  list  of  men 

Foremost  we  still  distinguish  thee, 
Who  broke  the  Christian  captives'  chain, 

And  freed  the  mighty  middle  sea ! 


102  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

And  while  the  merchant's  argosy 
Securely  o'er  the  sea  shall  roam, 

Shall  he  not  bless  the  thought  of  thee, 
Who  drove  the  pagan  pirate  home  ? 

The  shades  of  that  crusading  band 
Who  once  the  Soldan's  host  o'erthrew, 

Hailed  kindred  prowess  from  their  hand 
'Gainst  that  same  misbelieving  crew. 

Whilst  fire,  and  flood,  and  sword,  and  storm, 
And  every  form  of  death  was  there, 

Shrank  the  fierce  Turk  before  that  form 
That  seemed  "  a  charmed  life  to  wear." 

And  when  he  saw  thy  galiot's  prow 
Through  threefold  forces  cut  its  room, 

Deemed  tJiat  predestined  hour  was  nigh 
When  Allah  willed  his  children's  doom ; 

Saw  thy  brave  brother's  life  expire, 

And  scimitars  surrounding  clashed, 
But  swift  dilating  in  his  ire, 
•   On  to  his  march  the  Avenger  dashed ; 


A   BALLAD.  103 

Singly,  five  foeman's  blades  thrust  by, 

Rushed  to  the  wretch  that  wrought  his  fall, 

And  sent  the  death-stroke  from  thine  eye 
Before  he  felt  it  from  tHy  ball. 

Nor  chief  the  Saracen  to  quell 

Sufficed  thy  conq'ring  arm  to  crown ; 
Before  that  arm  a  trophy,  fell 

The  lion  banner  of  renown  ! 

Though  since,  that  banner  turned  by  fate 

To  those  who  first  its  ensigns  wore, 
Thy  soul  in  victory  unelate 

Its  failure  undejected  bore. 

Did  chance  or  change  thy  course  invade, 

Like  clouds  that  tinge  Italian  skies, 
They  did  but  soften  by  their  shade 

The  dizzying  radiance  of  its  dyes. 

0 !  who  that  through  our  firmament, 

To  mark  thy  radiant  pathway,  stood, 
Had  thought,  ere  half  the  day  was  spent, 

To  see  that  sun  go  down  in  blood  ? 


104  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

For  sunk  in  powerless  sleep  is  he 

Who  once  a  nation's  bolts  could  throw, 

And  Moorish  ghosts  have  laughed  at  thee, 
To  see  a  Christian  lay  thee  low. 

Long  gazed  upon  that  glorious  scene, 
The  Genius  of  thy  country  near ; 

Now,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  wrath, 
He  turns  him  from  thy  gory  bier ! 

From  all  the  scenes  that  formed  the  past 
His  partial  glance  alone  would  see, 

And  bid  oblivion  screen  the  last, 
Could  it  o'ershadow  aught  of  thee. 

Yet,  'mid  thy  fault,  I  fondly  view 
No  selfish  jar,  no  private  feud  — 

Though  rash  and  dire  the  means  —  as  true, 
Their  object  was  thy  country's  good ; 

Such  love  that  heart  thy  country  gave ; 

To  it  thy  life,  thy  death  was  given, 
Prizing  its  cause,  its  service,  more 

Than  aught  of  earth  —  alas !   or  Heaven. 


A    BALLAD.  105 

That  parent  country  wails  aloud 

The  fav'rite  of  so  many  years, 
And  would  upbraid  him,  but  his  shroud 

Changes  her  chidings  into  tears ! 

"  Son  of  my  strength,"  I  hear  her  cry, 
"  I  bless  thee  in  this  last  adieu ! 
E'en  I  forgive  thou  thus  should  die  ; 

GOD,  OF   HIS   GRACE,  FORGIVE   IT,  TOO  !  " 


106  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


A    FRAGMENT. 

[FEBRUARY,  1817.] 

THE  wind  is  high,  the  tempest  is  abroad ! 
Thou  hear'st  it  not,  my  brother !  feel'st  no  more 
Its  rude  assaultings ;  thou  who  erst  could  breast 
The  shock  of  storms  and  wind  with  fearless  front, 
That  almost  mocked  the  peril  others  shrunk  from ; 
Alas !  perchance,  thence  earlier  overpowered, 
Suddenly  prostrate,  while  the  selfish  souls 
That  cautious  calculate  the  doubtful  risk, 
Live  on  —  live  long !  whilst  thou,  beloved ! 
Art  in  that  lowly  house,  whereto  my  thought 
So  often  turns,  sickening  at  all  beside, 
And  emulous  of  thy  mysterious  rest, 
Whatever  it  be ! 

The  tempest  rages  on, 
And  not  unwelcomely  ;  afar  it  keeps 
The  ceremonious  guest,  the  officious  friend, 
Both  with  one  aim  to  banish  from  thy  tomb 
The  faithful  thought,  or  lead  it,  truant-like, 
To  lose  itself  amid  the  trivial  themes 
And  desultory  movements  of  the  hour. 


A   FRAGMENT.  107 

But  now  alone,  and  still,  and  serious  here, 
Tis  sweet,  how  sad  soe'er,  it  still  is  sweet 
To  be  together,  love !  amid  these  gusts, 
(Which  have  been  likened  to  a  spirit's  voice, 
With  reason,  though  with  fancy,)  to  persuade  me, 
I  feel  thy  presence  and  I  hear  thy  tones. 

But  be  this  as  it  may,  I  am  with  THEE ! 
How  often  with  thee  in  the  communings 
Of  secret  mind,  when  all  around  suppose  me 
Intent  on  other  matter,  he  alone, 
The  Master  Spirit,  he  alone  can  know, 
Or  tell,  perhaps,  to  thine. 

Thou  who  art  ever  with  me,  like  a  God, 
Unseen,  yet  omnipresent,  witness,  Charles, 
How  all  unwillingly  I  turn  my  mind 
From  musing  on  thy  fate,  e'en  at  the  call 
Of  holy  duty ;  seems  it  holier,  duty, 
And  primal,  too  —  at  least,  my  sickly  spirit 
So  dreams  of  it  —  to  linger  on  those  hours, 
Those  brief  but  bitter  hours,  thy  latest ! 

Yet  spare  me,  Memory,  spare  th'  appalling  image 
Of  that  dear  face,  such  as  in  death  I  saw  it, 
And  give  it  back  as  it  was  wont  to  be, 
Ruddy  with  health  and  life.     Spare  the  thought 
Of  that  loved  voice,  now  faint  and  tremulous, 
Now  with  delirium  wild !     Canst  thou  not  show  him 


108  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

As  for  so  many  years  he  stood  before  me  ? 
Why  turn  tormentor,  and  thus  rack  my  fancy 
With  visions  but  of  anguish  ? 

The  spring  returned,  but  not  to  thee  returned ! 
And  summer  came  —  thy  summer  never  came ! 
And  next  the  fatal  season  follows  on 
That  took  thee  from  us ;  never  more  by  me 
That  season  can  be  witnessed  but  with  woe ! 

The  reaper's  song  shall  wake  no  glad  response, 
And  the  bright  glories  of  the  harvest  moon 
Shine  dimly  through  my  tears.     Would  I  could  sleep 
Until  the  vintage  shall  be  gathered  in  ! 
"  The  joyous  vintage  "  —  so  they  name  it. 

The  sun  smiles  on  as  ever,  and  the  skies 
With  answering  looks  of  clear  and  cheering  hues 
Seem  in  contempt  to  hold  the  mourner's  heart, 
For  Nature  mourns  with  no  one.     Yet  methought 
Of  late  it  did ;  for  see,  our  leaves  have  fallen, 
Have  fallen  like  thee,  my  brother,  to  the  ground, 
Though  not  like  thee,  untimely.     They  have  seen 
Their  summer  through ;  nor  mocked  the  gazer's  hope ; 
Whilst  thou,  beloved !  — 


A   FRAGMENT.  109 

Yet  yon  little  tree 

Retains  its  mite  of  foliage,  while  the  large 
And  loftier  ones  that  skirt  our  garden  round 
Have  lost  their  honors ;  yonder  slender  stem 
Still  holds  its  three  small  twigs  toward  the  sun, 
And  twinkles  its  few  leaves  amid  the  breeze. 
It  is  the  tree  ;  thou  planted  it  when  thy  health 
Was  firm,  thine  arm  was  strong,  thy  hopes  were  high, 
And  now,  how  sickens  it  thy  sister's  heart, 
To  think  the  verdure  of  that  little  tree 
Outlasted  thine ! 


110  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 


T  0    C . 

[1817.] 

I  PLANT  no  roses  on  THY  grave, 

To  mock  decay  with  fragrant  breath ; 
Or  gaudy  hues  in  triumph  wave 

O'er  the  pale  form  that  wastes  beneath. 

No  laurel  o'er  that  form  shall  tower, 
To  boast  a  life  outlasting  thine  ; 

And  vaunt  its  leaf's  perennial  power, 
In  contrast  with  thy  swift  decline. 

The  sculptured  stone  the  proud  uprear, 
The  venal  verse  by  flattery  paid, 

Were  odious  to  thy  living  ear, 

Nor  shall  they  shame  thy  parted  shade. 


Ill 


Thy  name  thyself,  in  idle  hour, 

Graved  on  the  rind  of  yonder  tree  ; 

And  still  through  sun  and  storm  and  shower, 
That  sylvan  record  stands  of  thee. 

Naught  else,  save  but  the  tear,  the  sigh 
That  ever  must  thy  loss  deplore, 

Till  thine  own  voice  in  realms  on  high, 
Shall  bid  the  mourner  mourn  no  more  ! 


112  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


WHEN  SHALL  WE  THREE  MEET  AGAIN?"* 

[  1816.] 

LONG  years  have  passed,  but  vernal  May 

Returns  this  anniversary  day, 

When  yet 't  was  mine,  in  converse  sweet, 

A  pair  of  precious  friends  to  greet ; 

The  question  quick,  the  prompt  reply, 

The  quicker  language  of  the  eye, 

The  flash  that  lightened  either  face, 

The  hand's  close  clasp,  the  long  embrace  — 

These  once  were  mine  ;  ah,  cease  the  strain, 

For  ne'er  can  these  be  mine  again ! 

The  years  return,  but  never  more 
Those  friends  partake  my  simple  store  ; 
Low  in  the  earth  their  forms  repose, 
High  to  the  heavens  their  spirits  rose, 

*  Macbeth. 


"WHEN  SHALL  WE  THREE  MEET  AGAIN?"  113 

Whilst,  by  life's  longer  storm  oppressed, 
I  gaze  with  envy  on  their  rest, 
And  to  the  passing  wind  complain, 
"  When  shall  we  three  meet  again." 

Appalling  thought !  ere  that  can  be, 
All  things  must  cease  that  now  I  see ; 
Stars  from  their  stations  must  retire, 
Faint  the  pale  moon,  the  sun  expire, 
Earth  must  depart,  nor  heaven  remain, 
Ere  we  three  can  meet  again ! 


114  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


THE  VASE. 

[1816.] 

HEAR  ye !  who  list  this  simple  lay, 
How  Lusitanian  lady  gay, 
From  sunnier  regions  far  away, 

Myrtle  and  orange  bowers, 
Deigned  in  our  frigid  climes  to  stay, 
Cheating  the  dullness  of  the  day, 
By  bidding  yonder  vase  display 

Its  imitative  flowers. 
Within  that  vase,  a  wondrous  thing, 
Her  talismanic  touch  could  bring 
The  mimic  progeny  of  spring 

To  live,  or  seem  to  live, 
And  in  her  reverie  would  seem 
To  foster  Fancy's,  Memory's  dream, 
Oblivion's  images  redeem, 
Teach  fond  associate  thoughts  to  beam, 

And  warmth  and  fragrance  give. 


THE   VASE.  115 

As  brief,  as  brittle  as  that  dream, 
The  vase,  alas !  my  mournful  theme ! 

Too  soon  in  dust  was  laid ! 
Protecting  sylphs,  is  this  your  care  ? 
And  guardian  gnomes,  0 !  tell  me  where  — 

Where  was  your  wonted  aid? 
That  aid,  which  still  from  age  to  age 
Shall  shine  in  Pope's  recording  page, 

Yon  monster  might  have  stayed ; 
And  ye,  too,  train  of  elphin  birth, 
Titania's  subjects,  sylphs  of  earth,, 
Though  tiny  each,  your  myriad  worth 

Collective  might  have  saved. 
A  fierce  grimalkin  from  the  wood 
Profaned  the  shrine  wherein  it  stood, 
And  as  the  Ephesian  miscreant  viewed 

The  temple  firm  and  fair, 
Alike  this  modern  outlaw,  proud 
And  bold,  to  sure  destruction  vowed 

This  vase,  so  rich  and  rare. 
Nor  in  suspense  the  blow  was  hung ; 
Swift  to  his  mark  the  ruffian  sprung, 

Like  tiger  on  his  prey. 
Down  fell  the  vase  with  clashing  sound. 
And  all  its  fragments  on  the  ground 

Beauteous  in  ruins  lay ! 


116  POEMS    AXD    MISCELLANIES. 

E'en  so  Palmyra's  prostrate  towers, 
The  pride  of  other  days  than  ours, 

Attract  the  musing  eye, 
And  at  Etrurius'  mould'ring  fane, 
And  thine,  0,  classic  Greece !  must  gain 

The  moralizing  sigh. 
If  towers  and  temples  thus  must  fall, 
E'en  vases,  too,  must  hear  the  call 

Of  violence  of  time. 
Yet  shall  the  muse  thy  worth  rehearse, 
Thou  shattered  subject  of  my  verse, 

In  monumental  rhyme. 
'Twas  Gallia  gave  thee  to  the  day, 
Moulded  of  purest  porcelain  clay, 

Thy  well-proportioned  frame, 
Thy  polished  front,  thy  snowy  side, 
And  colors  bright,  were  all  her  due, 

And  hers  to  give  thy  name. 

And  since  the  Fates  decree  that  all 
Of  Gallia's  arms  or  arts  must  fall 
When  leagued  grimalkins  'reft  her  hall 

Of  statue  and  of  bust, 
What  wonder  if  it  be  presumed 
Her  roses,  like  her  Venus,  doomed, 

Should  fall  and  kiss  the  dust  ? 


THE   VASE.  117 


Behold,  all  ye  this  verse  who  list, 
How  humblest  instruments  assist 

In  every  grand  design : 
Columbian  cats,  though  rough  the  race, 
Republicans,  and  out  of  place, 
May  aid  Duke  Wellington,  His  Grace, 
"  Great  moral  lessons  "  to  impress, 
While  vases  share  the  like  distress 

With  fallen  Napoleon's  line ! 
0 !  that  were  mine  the  votive  skill 
Of  him  who  taught  his  notes  to  swell 
The  drowning  tabby's  funeral  knell 

With  Orpheus'  fabled  power ! 
Then  higher  should  my  notes  ascend, 
And  fitter  melodies  attend 

The  vase's  final  hour ; 
But,  since  'tis  all  a  bard  can  do 
To  do  his  best,  that  best  for  you, 

Lady,  my  hand  essayed ; 
And  if  it  wake  one  ready  smile 
Sense  of  privation  to  beguile, 

The  effort  is  repaid. 


118  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 


STANZAS 


COMMEMORATIVE  OF   THE   TWENTY-THIRD   DAY   OF   DEC.,  1815,  WHEN   THE  BRITISH 

WERE     REPULSED    FROM    NEW    ORLEANS. —  AN   ATTEMPTED    IMITATION 

OF   SIR   WALTER   SCOTT'S  VERSES   ON   MR.  PITT'S   BIRTHDAY. 


0,  DARK  was  the  cloud  and  more  dark  the  foreboding, 

When  the  conq'rors  of  France  and  the  champions  of  Spain 
Turned  hither  those  bolts  late  so  fatal  exploding, 

Far  flashing  the  lightnings  of  battle  again  ! 
Now  the  blackness  no  more  the  horizon  deforms, 

Be  the  incense  of  thankfulness  wafted  on  high, 
Nor  let  gratitude's  flower,  which  has  flourished  in  storms, 

'Mid  the  sun  of  security  wither  and  die. 

When  the  earth  with  its  groans  joins  the  sea  with  its  roaring, 
In  a  menace  that  startles  his  tottering  walls, 

To  his  tutelar  saint  for  protection  imploring, 
The  terrified  Lusian  in  agony  calls ; 


STANZAS.  119 

But  departs  with  the  danger,  the  feeling  it  forms, 

When  nature  resumes  her  original  guise, 
And  gratitude's  flower,  that  was  nourished  in  storms, 

'Neath  the  sun  of  security  withers  and  dies. 

Far  from  us  be  the  sin  of  thy  slaves,  Superstition  ! 

Whose  ingrate  sensations  no  ardor  retain, 
Till  the  element  war  that  portends  then1  perdition, 

Shall  shock  them  to  feeling  and  phrenzy  again ; 
More  gen'rous  emotions  our  bosoms  shall  warm, 

Than  timidity's  tremor  that  danger  is  nigh  ; 
Nor  shall  gratitude's  flower,  which  we  cherished  in  storm, 

In  the  sun  of  security  wither  and  die. 

For  yet  hail  we  the  chieftain  commissioned  to  save, 

We  invoked  as  our  guardian  from  perils  at  hand, 
When  the  bellow  of  battle  was  heard  on  the  wave, 

And  kindred  convulsions  were  quaking  the  land. 
That  sea-shout  he  stilled,  those  convulsions  he  stayed ; 

Then  be  gratitude's  fragrancy  still  wafted  high, 
And  beware,  lest  the  flower  safe  thro'  storm  and  thro'  shade, 

In  security's  sunbeam  be  suffered  to  die. 

But  cheer  we  the  chief,  who,  empowered  by  high  Heaven, 
Reduced  civic  chaos  to  order  and  plan, 


120  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Made  to  contrary  forces  one  impulse  be  given, 
And  the  mind  of  the  many  the  mind  of  one  man. 

To  him  and  his  band,  as  returns  this  proud  morning, 
Fresh  chaplets  we'll  culture  all  change  to  defy ; 

From  our  heart's  hardy  flower  that,  all  seasons  adorning, 
Nor  in  storm  nor  in  sunshine  can  wither  or  die. 

Sprung  from  Scotia,*  whose  sons,  northern  lights  'mid  the  nation, 

Ulumine  the  mists  of  her  spirit-starred  sky, 
There  beatified  Moore,f  from  his  bright  elevation, 

Shall  bend  on  thy  valor  a  brother's  fond  eye ! 
Ah !  haply,  no  tear  damped  the  wreath  that  we  form, 

With  thy  palm  and  thy  laurel  no  cypress  we  tie ; 
They  are  gratitude's  flowers  which,  immortal  through  storm, 

In  the  sun  of  security  never  shall  die. 

*  Sir  J.  Moore.  t  Gen.  Jackson  is  said  to  have  been  bora  in  Scotland. 


STANZAS.  121 


STANZAS 

ON   A   VIEW  OF  NEWSTEAD  PARK,  BELONGING  TO  A    SEAT    LATE   THE    PROPERTY 
OF   THE  RIGHT   HONORABLE   LORD   BYRON. 

[1814.] 

FROM  scenes  like  these,  that  far  and  wide 
Rise  and  expand  in  sylvan  pride, 
Where  fickle  man  might  find  in  range 
From  hill  to  vale,  congenial  change ; 
From  scenes  whose  very  hues  impart 
Good  and  gay  cheerfulness  of  heart, 
Could  e'er  their  reckless  owner  roam, 
With  guilt  and  gloom  to  find  a  home  ? 
To  wander,  like  the  exiled  ghost, 
From  heavenly  fields  forever  lost, 
Doomed,  with  Elysium  yet  in  view, 
His  wayward  rovings  to  pursue, 
Where  tosses  Doubt's  tumultuous  sea, 
Thy  shattered  wreck,  Depravity ! 


122  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Degenerate  Gordon !  not  like  thee 

Have  proved  thy  nobler  ancestry ; 

Nor  rambling  taste,  nor  thirst  of  gain, 

From  them  had  wrung  their  loved  domain ; 

Naught  lured  them  from  their  native  hall 

But  fatal  honor's  sternest  call ; 

Their  only  signal  to  depart 

The  beating  of  a  loyal  heart ; 

That,  when  Culloden's  crimsoned  bed 

Heaved  with  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

Followed  its  guiding  beams  afar, 

Till  set  in  blood  the  Stuarts  star, 

While  heaven  and  earth  combined  to  sign 

The  ruin  of  that  royal  line. 

Son  of  the  Muse,  celestial  guide, 
Wont  to  inspire  far  purer  pride ! 
Son  of  the  Muse !  had  gold  the  power 
To  win  from  thee  thy  classic  bower  ? 
Of  Byron  should  it  e'er  be  told 
His  birthright  bartered  was  —  for  gold  ? 

Alas !  for  thou  hast  sold  yet  more 
Than  fragile  dome  or  earth-born  store  ; 
And  Virtue  mourns,  in  early  day, 
A  brighter  birthright  cast  away ; 


STANZAS.  123 

What  time  delirious  Passion's  bowl 
Dissolved  thy  priceless  pearl  —  the  soul !  * 
0,  crowned  by  heaven  with  youth  and  health, 
And  mental  hoards  and  worldly  wealth, 
Vain  the  vast  patrimony's  aid ! 
Thy  debt  on  high  has  ne'er  been  paid ; 
Thy  means  perverted  from  the  aim 
That  had  discharged  the  loftiest  claim ; 
Guilt's  lawless  traffic  lost  for  thee 
The  treasures  of  futurity ! 

Yet  might  it  be  —  thyself —  thy  song 
Are  causelessly  accused  of  wrong; 
And  tell-tale  Fame,  though  still  believed, 
Has  still  as  constantly  deceived ; 
And  thy  free  soul,  unleagued  with  ill, 
Retains  its  guardian  angel  still, 
Who,  when  Temptation's  fiends  assailed, 
Has  wrestled  for  thee  and  prevailed ; 
If  so,  the  burning  blush  suffuse, 
The  bitterest  tear  bedim  the  Muse ; 
To  find  it  false  were  cause  to  rue, 
Unequalled,  save  —  to  find  it  true ! 

*  The  pearl  of  the  soul  may  be  melted  away.  —  T.  MOORE. 


124  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Yet  must  the  mind  misgive  thy  lot 
That  lingers  on  this  pictured  spot, 
Gazes  its  many  beauties  o'er, 
And  still  returns  to  number  more, 
Musing  what  bliss  'twere  here  to  find 
A  solace  for  the  wearied  mind. 
When  long  sustained  the  various  parts 
Of  public  trust  in  arms  or  arts, 
Blessing  and  blest  —  how  fitly  here 
Might  pause  from  toil  a  British  Peer ! 
Be  welcomed  by  the  well-known  shade 
Where  many  a  truant  prank  he  played, 
And  taste  the  fruit  and  pluck  the  flower, 
Creations  of  his  earlier  hour. 

From  courts  and  camps,  in  groves  like  those, 

Thy  hero,  Blenheim,  found  repose ; 

To  breathe  the  calm  that  such  inspire, 

Would  awful  Chatham's  self  retire ; 

And  sacred  ever  be  the  shade 

Where,  matchless  Burke !  thy  form  was  laid, 

When,  pond'ring  all  thy  country's  woes, 

The  genius  of  prescience  rose, 

And  spread  such  visions  to  thy  sight 

As  checked  the  spirit's  hastening  flight, 

And  stopped  of  age  the  coming  night, 


STANZAS.  125 

Bidding,  as  erst  in  Ajalon, 

The  mental  sun  not  yet  go  down ! 

Beside  that  bright  and  tranquil  stream 

How  pleasant  to  recline  and  dream ! 

Listening  the  while  its  gentle  sound 

Not  even  fairy  ear  might  wound, 

Nor  passing  zephyr  dare  molest 

The  sacred  quiet  of  its  breast. 

In  gay  translucency  complete, 

Yet  mild  as  bright  —  0,  emblem  meet ! 

The  very  heaven  assigned  the  just, 

The  haunt  of  beatific  trust, 

Where  no  defilement  enters  e'er, 

Seems  scarce  more  fair,  more  calm,  more  dear. 

Byron !  from  this  —  and  couldst  thou  pass  ? 

Perchance,  because  its  faithful  glass 

To  thy  inquiring  glance  has  shown 

Features  the  contrast  to  its  own. 

Far  other  images  might  find 

Access  to  that  distempered  mind  — 

The  dark  wave  warring  'gainst  the  shore, 

The  wild  cascade's  eternal  roar ; 

What  scorns,  or  what  maintains  control, 

Suits  the  stern  habits  of  thy  soul. 


126  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Where  opes  yon  vista,  to  disclose 
Deep  blushing  how  th'  horizon  glows, 
'Twere  sweet  to  watch  the  sun  descend, 
Like  patriarch  or  like  patriot's  end  — 
The  radiance  of  whose  parting  light 
Gleams  far  athwart  the  grave's  long  night, 
And  glances  to  that  distant  shore 
Where  suns  arise  to  set  no  more. 

Or  where  the  hill's  serener  brow 
O'erlooks  the  bustling  world  below, 
Wait  till  that  glorious  orb  arise, 
And  ride  along  the  nether  skies, 
A  warrior,  awful  to  assail, 
With  fiery  lance  and  golden  mail, 
Who,  while  his  own  impassive  form 
Derides  of  heaven  and  earth  the  storm, 
Has  ireful  shafts,  so  swift,  so  sure, 
That  mortal  strength  can  ne'er  endure ; 
When  that,  hi  vengeance  like  a  God, 
O'er  scorching  realms  he  proudly  trod, 
But  oftener  when  he  glads  the  view 
Like  as  a  God  in  bounty,  too, 
Painting  the  flow'ret  and  the  stone 
With  tints  without  his  touch  unknown, 


STANZAS.  127 

Aiding  the  labors  of  the  swain, 
Granting  to  life  its  feast  of  grain ; 
The  holiest  heart  was  e'er  bestowed 
Might  hail  him  on  his  heavenly  road, 
And  pardon  that  the  pagan  knee 
Had  bent  in  fond  idolatry. 

Sweet  scene,  farewell !  Although  these  eyes 
Behold  thee  but  through  mimic  dyes ; 
Though  ne'er  my  step  may  wander  o'er 
To  ancient  Albion's  distant  shore, 
Yet  for  this  semblance  shall  my  heart 
Long  bless  the  imitative  art. 

But  thou  !  whose  meed  it  was  to  know 
The  substance  of  this  shadowy  show, 
At  will  to  visit  such  a  shrine, 
With  the  high  consciousness  —  'TWAS  THINE, 
Couldst  thou  —  whate'er  the  syren  call  — 
From  such  an  Eden  fly  —  self-driven  ? 
Its  social  bower,  its  festive  hall, 
Its  lawns,  its  waters,  woods,  its  all  — 
"  0 !  how  couldst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven  ?  " 


128  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


STANZAS 


SUPPOSED   TO   HAVE   BEEN   WRITTEN  NEAR   A   VILLA   IN  NAPLES,   ONCE  THE 
RESIDENCE   OF   EMMA,   LADY  HAMILTON. 

YES,  thy  enlightened  mind  can  scorn 

The  fables  of  the  nursery  page, 
And  hold  of  fraud  or  error  born 

The  legends  of  a  monkish  age : 

-Of  witch  or  fay,  in  evil  hour, 

Foul  demons,  garbed  in  form  most  fair, 

With  heroes  spell-bound  by  their  power, 
Or  nature  vassalled  in  their  care. 

Yet  persons,  places,  there  may  be 
Our  doubts  could  to  conviction  turn ; 

Make  us,  what  we  have  heard,  to  see, 
And  force  us  on  the  faith  we  spurn. 


STANZAS.  129 

And  this  is  one !  and  stranger,  sure, 

If.  holily  thy  heart  incline 
'T  will  pray,  should  e'en  the  syren  lure, 

The  deafened  adder's  part  be  thine. 

For  here  dwelt  one,  whose  gifts  of  art 

And  grace  of  nature  could  combine 
To  harbor  a  demoniac  heart, 

Hid  in  the  goodliest  human  shrine  — 

And  as  the  rebel  seraphim 

That  heaven  records  with  dire  renown, 
Drew  other  spirits  like  to  him, 

E'en  from  their  high  allegiance  down  — 

Son  of  the  morning !  so  could  she, 

NELSON  !  thy  noble  mind  o'erthrow, 
To  forfeit  what  was  due  from  thee, 

To  God  above  or  man  below. 

To  blight  that  hero's  laurel-crown, 

Her  deadly  nightshade  on  she  threw, 
And  round  the  stars  of  his  renown, 

A  dark  and  misty  halo  drew. 


130  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

His  "  milk  of  human  kindness  "  all 

Was  changed  and  cursed  by  sorcerer's  art ; 

And  milder  feelings  turned  to  gall, 
That  wont  to  circle  round  his  heart. 

False  then,  to  trust  luxurious  joys 

With  barb'rous  deeds  have  nought  in  kind, 

That  swords  cannot  be  joined  with  toys 
To  supple  and  to  steel  the  mind. 

Its  reckless  lord,*  'mid  naming  Rome 
Wakening  the  viol's  warbling,  stood  ; 

And  Stuart  left  his  goblet's  foam, 
To  banquet  upon  Russell's  blood. 

The  vices,  allied  in  their  aim, 

Still  in  each  other's  tread  pursue  ; 

And  she  who  loses  woman's  shame, 
Soon  loses  woman's  pity  too. 

When  ruined  patriots'  cries  arose, 

'T  was  hers  the  monarch's  ear  to  engage ; 

To  turn  them  fenceless  to  their  foes, 

And  quench  in  blood  their  "  noble  rage." 

*  Nero. 


STANZAS.  131 

'Twas  hers  the  accursed  doom  to  spy,* 

Where  aged  Honor  met  his  end, 
Whilst  to  his  death-distorted  eye 

Glared  horrible  the  female  fiend ! 

Sorc'ress !  when  next  you  meet  again, 

In  other  hands  the  penal  power ; 
Not  thine  to  wield  the  vengeance  then, 

When  next  that  murdered  form  shall  lower ! 

As  when,  slow  rising  o'er  the  wave, 

It  struck  the  guilty  Bourbon  dumb  : 
A  spectral  herald  from  the  grave, 

A  monitor  of  wrath  to  come  ! 

Yet,  if  the  guilt  that  stains  the  soul, 

Immortal  as  that  soul  may  be  — 
And  crimes  their  dark,  dark  shadows  roll, 

O'er  scenes  of  far  futurity  !  — 

Then,  the  blot  of  Albion's  isle, 

Though  Italy's  ensanguined  scourge, 
Oh  Hamilton  !  th'  avenger's  smile, 

Nor  further  need  thy  sentence  urge. 

*  Carocciobi. 


132  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

The  bosom  serpents  cherished  here, 

Hereafter  shall  that  bosom  tear ; 
Medusa's  loose  and  ruthless  peer 

Medusa's  loathsome  doom  must  bear. 

Then,  traveller  !  turn  thee  hence,  and  curse  her  not, 
Who  waits,  imprisoned  'neath  the  clod, 

Stern  retribution's  righteous  lot, 
The  final  fiat  of  her  God. 


THE  RAINBOW.  133 


THE    EAINBOW. 

[1813.] 

SEEN  through  the  misty  southern  air, 
What  painted  gleam  of  light  is  there, 

Luring  the  charmed  eye  ? 
Whose  mellowing  shades  of  different  dyes 
In  rich  profusion  gorgeous  rise, 

And  melt  into  the  sky  ? 


Higher  and  higher  still  it  grows, 
Brighter  and  clearer  yet  it  shows, 

It  widens,  lengthens,  rounds ; 
And  now  that  gleam  of  painted  light, 
A  noble  arch,  confessed  to  sight, 

Spans  the  empyreal  bounds. 


134  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

What  curious  mechanician  wrought, 
What  viewless  hands,  as  swift  as  thought, 

Have  bent  this  flexile  bow  ? 
What  seraph  touch  these  shades  could  blend, 
Without  beginning,  without  end  ? 

What  sylph  such  tints  bestow  ? 

If  Fancy's  telescope  we  bring 
To  scan  withal  this  peerless  thing, 
The  Air,  the  Cloud,  the  Water  King, 

'Twould  seem  their  treasures  joined, 
And  the  proud  monarch  of  the  day, 
Their  grand  ally,  his  splendid  ray 

Of  eastern  gold  combined. 

Vain  vision,  hence !  that  will  reverse, 
Which  in  Creation's  infant  year, 
Bade,  in  compassion  to  our  fear, 

(Scarce  spent  the  deluge  rage,) 
Each  elemental  cause  combine, 
Whose  rich  effect  should  form  this  sign, 

Through  every  future  age. 

0,  Peace !  the  rainbow-emblemed  maid, 
Where  have  thy  fairy  footsteps  strayed  ? 


THE   RAINBOW.  135 

Where  hides  thy  seraph  form  ? 
What  twilight  caves  of  ocean  rest  ? 
Or  in  what  island  of  the  blest 

Sails  it  on  gales  of  morn  ? 

Missioned  from  heaven  in  early  hour, 
Designed  through  Eden's  blissful  bower 

Delightedly  to  tread, 
Till  exiled  thence  in  evil  time, 
Scared  at  the  company  of  crime, 

Thy  startled  pinions  fled. 

E'er  since  that  hour,  alas,  the  thought ! 
Like  thine  own  dove,  who  vainly  sought 

To  find  a  sheltered  nest, 
Till  from  the  East,  the  South,  the  North, 
Doomed  to  be  driven  a  wanderer  forth, 

And  find  not  where  to  rest ; 

Till  when  the  west  its  world  displayed 
Of  hiding  hills  and  sheltering  shade, 
Thither  thy  weary  flight  was  stayed, 

Here  fondly  fixed  thy  seat ; 
Our  valleys  and  our  desert  caves, 
Our  wall  of  interposing  waves, 

Seemed  a  secure  retreat. 


136  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

In  vain !  from  this  thy  last  abode 
(One  pitying  glance  on  earth  bestowed) 
We  saw  thee  take  the  heavenward  road, 

Where  yonder  cliffs  arise  \ 
Saw  thee  thy  tearful  features  shroud, 
Till  cradled  on  the  conscious  cloud 
That  to  await  thy  coming  bowed, 

We  lost  thee  in  the  skies. 

For  now  the  maniac  demon,  War, 
Whose  ravings,  heard  so  long  from  far, 
Convulsed  us  with  their  distant  jar, 

Nearer  and  louder  roars ; 
His  arm,  that  death  and  conquest  hurled 
On  all  beside  of  all  the  world, 

Claims  these  remaining  shores. 

What  though  the  laurel  leaves  he  tear, 
Proud  round  his  impious  brow  to  wear 

A  wreath  that  will  not  fade  ? 
What  boots  him  its  perennial  power  ? 
These  laurels  canker  where  they  flower, 

They  poison  where  they  shade. 


THE   RAINBOW.  137 

But  thou,  around  whose  holy  head 
The  balmy  olive  loves  to  spread, 

Return,  0  nymph  benign ! 
With  buds  that  Paradise  bestowed, 
Whence  "  healing  for  the  nations  "  flowed, 

Our  bleeding  temples  twine. 

For  thee  our  fathers  ploughed  the  strand ; 
For  thee  they  left  that  goodly  land, 

The  turf  their  childhood  trod, 
The  hearths  on  which  their  infants  played, 
The  tombs  in  which  their  sires  were  laid, 

The  altars  of  their  God. 

Then,  by  their  consecrated  dust> 
Their  spirits  —  spirits  of  the  just, 

Now  near  their  Maker's  face ; 
By  their  privations  and  their  cares, 
Their  pilgrim  toils,  their  patriot  prayers, 

Desert  thou  not  their  race. 

Descend  to  mortal  ken  confessed, 
Known  by  thy  white  and  stainless  vest, 
And  let  us  on  the  mountain  crest 


138  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

That  snowy  mantle  see  ; 
0,  let  not  here  thy  mission  close ! 
Leave  not  the  erring  sons  of  those 

Who  left  a  world  for  thee ! 

Celestial  visitant !  again 
Resume  thy  gentle,  golden  reign, 

Our  honored  guest  once  more ; 
Cheer  with  thy  smiles  our  saddened  plain, 
And  let  thy  rainbow,  o'er  the  main, 

Tell  that  the  storms  are  o'er ! 


OCEAN.  139 


OCEAN. 

A   NAVAL   PRIZE   ODE. 
[  1813. ] 

ALL  hail,  thou  mightiest,  monstrous  Power ! 
To  whom,  in  this  tempestuous  hour, 

The  nations  bow  the  knee  ! 
This  hour,  when  Heaven's  right  arm  hath  hurled 
Its  thunders  round  a  warring  world, 
O'er  Christendom  one  bloody  flag  unfurled, 

We  lift,  our  eyes  to  thee ! 

Primeval  Power  !  ere  order  sprung, 
While  yet  o'er  chaos  darkness  hung, 
Thou  wert  j  and  when,  in  onward  time, 
The  impious  mortal  stained  by  crime 
The  image  of  his  Sire  sublime ; 
Then,  great  Avenger !  didst  thou  rise, 
And  swelling  to  the  darkened  skies, 


140  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Each  of  thy  waves  commissioned  then 
Whelmed  in  the  worthless  race  of  men  ! 

Ocean !  that  venerable  name, 

What  tongue  unfaltering  shall  proclaim  ? 

Here,  as  upon  my  native  plain 

That  borders  on  thy  wide  domain, 

I  stand,  and  strive  one  glimpse  to  gain 

Of  half  thy  worth,  but  strive  in  vain. 

Power !  to  whose  hundred  hands  is  given 

To  toss  their  foam  against  the  face  of  heaven, 

And,  ere  insulted  heaven  its  wrath  can  show, 

Ketreat  in  safety  to  th'  abyss  below. 

Extent  I  whose  untold  regions  lie 

Where  man  nor  angel  e'er  could  pry, 

Who  mantlest  round  this  mighty  globe, 

As  in  one  vast,  cerulean  robe. 

And  wealth !  whose  many  massive  heaps 

Lie  piled  within  thy  cavern  deeps, 

Where  new  Peruvia's  unfold 

Their  copious  veins  of  liquid  gold, 

And  other  India's  rise  to  spread 

Of  rival  gems,  thy  sparkling  bed. 


OCEAN.  141 

Yet,  grand  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
'T  is  ours  with  no  foreboding  heart, 

To  count  thy  glories  o'er ; 
Descendants  from  that  western  wild, 
Of  heaven  the  latest,  loveliest  child, 
"Who  safe  in  thy  protection  smiled, 

Nor  asked  nor  cared  for  more : 
Blooming  so  long  from  all  intrusion  free, 
And  known  to  none  but  Heaven  and  thee  ; 
Till  he,  thy  chosen  chieftain,  came, 
Genoa's  boast,  Iberia's  shame  ; 
(Blest,  had  he  never  ceased  o'er  thee  to  roam, 
Nor  found  disgrace,  and  chains,  and  death  at  home.) 
He  wooed  and  won  the  peerless  dame, 
And  gave  to  her  his  honored"  name. 
E're  since  that  hour,  their  children,  we, 
In  weal  or  woe  thy  aid  can  see. 
In  war,  thy  guarding  waters  rose, 
A  fence  between  us  and  our  foes ; 
In  peace,  thy  stars  have  been  our  guides, 
Our  coursers  swift  thy  foaming  tides, 
And  safe  have  been  our  billowy  rides, 
As  when  some  white-winged  seraph  glides 

To  haven  of  repose. 


142  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Far  to  that  execrated  shore, 
Where  ancient  Carthage  towered  of  yore, 
'Twas  thy  supporting  arms  that  bore 
'Gainst  Punic  perfidy  the  band 
Who  well  avenged  our  injured  land, 
And  drove  the  crescent,  bathed  in  blood, 
To  hide  its  blushes  in  the  flood  ; 
But  when  no  effort  could  withstand 
The  wily  Turk's  ensnaring  hand, 
Snatched  for  themselves  the  lighted  brand, 
And,  mounting  in  a  shroud  of  flame, 
Died  to  the  world  —  to  live  in  fame  !  * 

And  now,  though  in  the  recent  year 
That  compassed  our  "  diurnal  sphere," 
Defeat,  disgrace,  and  want,  and  fear, 
Wherever  else  we  look,  appear ; 
Yet,  when  to  thee  we  turn  our  eyes, 
Some  stars  amid  the  storms  arise. 
Lo !  twice  within  that  little  year, 
Behold  yon  trophied  barque  appear, 


*  This  refers  to  Capt.  Somes  and  Lieutenants  Wadsworth  and  Israel,  who,  seeing  themselves 
surrounded  by  three  gunboats  in  the  harbor  of  Tripoli,  on  the  remarkable  night  of  August  4th, 
1804,  with  no  prospect  of  escape,  preferred  death  to  slavery,  and  putting  a  match  to  the  train  of 
the  fireship  Intrepid,  blew  the  whole  into  the  air! 


OCEAN.  143 

Whose  eagle,  in  the  wat'ry  field, 
Twice  bade  the  British  lion  yield ! 
Whose  noble  mast  yet  stands  to  tell 
Its  native  oaks  —  it  never  fell! 
And  bids  Defiance'  loudest  blast 
Challenge  the  world  to  mate  that  mast, 
For  service  shared,  for  duty  done, 
For  danger  dared,  for  vict'ry  won ! 

Ere,  echoing  round  our  gladdened  shore, 
The  peal  of  triumph  scarce  was  o'er, 
Thou  bad'st  thy  winds  to  bear  again 
O'er  all  its  hills  the  lofty  strain, 
To  tell  them  that  another  sail, 
'Mid  dark  October's  stormy  gale, 
In  direst,  deadliest  shock,  could  close 
With  hearts  as  brave  as  Britain  knows, 
And  in  that  shock  prevail ! 

We  crowd  not  on  the  shuddering  sight 
The  horrors  of  that  awful  fight ; 
Not  ours  to  count  the  cruel  scars, 
And  groans,  and  wounds  of  ocean  wars , 
Let  others  note  how,  side  by  side, 
The  virtuous  and  the  valiant  died ; 


144  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Where  gun  'gainst  gun,  encount'ring,  lay 
So  near,  they  crossed  each  other's  way ! 
And  from  the  suffering  and  the  slain 
The  life-stream  mingled  with  the  main, 
Till  Conquest  grasped  his  laurelled  crown, 
Less  as  a  symbol  of  renown 
Than  to  conceal  from  sight,  from  thought, 
Proofs  of  the  price  at  which  'twas  bought ! 

Thou,  Ocean !  thou,  the  seaman's  sire ! 
Witness  for  us !  while  deeds  like  those 
Approved  our  prowess  to  our  foes, 
Did  they  not,  'mid  ourselves,  inspire 
In  all  the  emulous  desire 
As  well  to  act  as  to  admire  ? 

Witness,  as  well  it  may, 
That  one  could,  unattended,  roam 
To  Albion's  very  channel  home, 

In  vain  but  bold  essay ; 
And  could  bid  his  cannon  sound 
To  St.  Salvador's  farthest  ground, 
Till  Andes  might  the  shock  rebound, 

Of  challenging  the  fray ! 


OCEAN.  145 

And  soon,  with  streamers  waving  nigh, 

On  thy  blue  throne  exalted  high, 

We  hailed  another  naval  son, 

Graced  with  the  gift  his  arm  had  won ; 

A  rare  and  goodly  gift,  to  greet 

A  country  ever  proud  to  meet 

The  same  chivalrous  chief,  who  bore 

Kich  tributes  once  from  Barbary's  shore, 

As  Allah's  sons  can  tell ; 
But  now  a  nobler  trophy  shows, 
Wrested  from  mightier,  manlier  foes, 

Who  fought  so  long  —  so  well. 
Vict'ry  was  ours,  and  conflict  o'er,, 
Found  mercy  had  been  ours  before, 
And  kindness,  from  elation  free, 
And  frank,  high-minded  courtesy. 
In  losing  Peace  we  have  not  lost 
That  gentle  grace  she  prizes  most. 
So  may  the  goddess,  when  again 
She  re-ascends  her  sacred  fane, 
That  fane,  whose  gates,  alas !  now  closed, 
Have  stood  to  force  and  fraud  exposed, 
Find  still  upon  her  altar's  urn 
Unquenched  its  lambent  lustre  burn. 
Without  is  all  the  storm  and  din ; 
The  vestal  flame  yet  lives  within. 


146  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Once  more,  upon  thy  list  of  fame, 
Ocean  !  inscribe  another  name ; 
Surely,  we  may  not  ask  in  vain 
For  him,  who  ne'er  can  ask  again ! 
For  him,  most  prized,  yet  pitied  most  — 
For  Lawrence,  honored  —  Lawrence,  lost ! 
For  him,  who  erst  the  fight  maintained, 
And  erst  the  conqueror's  chaplet  gained, 

And  better,  nobler  far, 
Who  sprang  where  battle  fiercest  bled, 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead, 

And  stayed  the  waste  of  war ! 
For  him,  whose  virtues  were  declared 
By  enemies  his  sword  had  spared, 
What  time  his  arm  humanely  dared 
The  reeling  captive  to  sustain, 
And  snatch  the  sinking  from  the  main. 
The  life,  in  fight  half  lost  before, 
Was  now  to  peril  risked  once  more, 
Till,  aiding  in  the  great  emprise, 
His  comrades  sank  before  his  eyes. 
This — this  may  Fame's  sublimest  song 
In  everlasting  note  prolong  ! 
0,  glorious  end !  0,  death  of  pride  ! 
The  victors  for  the  vanquished  died ! 


OCEAN.  147 

But  be  the  shouts  of  triumph  o'er ; 
Strike  the  high  warbling  harp  no  more ! 
And  let  the  minstrel's  measure  know 
No  tones  but  tones  of  martial  woe  ! 
O'er  the  slow  undulating  tide 
Let  only  mournful  music  glide, 
And  but  the  solemn  sounding  oar 
Awake  the  silence  of  the  shore. 
Let  Fancy  to  the  tufted  steep 

For  sad  sepulchral  sights  retire, 
Where  wildly  o'er  the  moaning  deep 
The  mermaids  tear 
Their  golden  hair 

And  fling  it  on  the  funeral  pyre. 
Such  sorrows,  to  the  patriot  dear, 
Befit  a  hero's  bloody  bier ; 
Such,  Lawrence !  to  thy  name  be  paid 
All  that  can  greet  thy  gallant  shade. 
0,  thou !  whose  gen'rous  arm  could  save 
Thy  fellows  from  an  early  grave, 
What  blessings  had  to  him  belonged 
Who  had  a  life  like  thine  prolonged  ? 

Yet  had  thy  parting  been  deferred, 

Hadst  thou  been  spared,  thou  hadst  but  heard 


148  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Thy  country  to  thy  claims  demurred,* 
Nor  paid  thee  for  thy  wounds  a  word. 

Indignant  shade !  I  see  thee  stand 
On  wild  Canadia's  adverse  strand, 

While  round  the  night  breeze  moans, 
And  pointing  with  thy  shadowy  hand, 
Thy  voice  exclaims,  "  Ungrateful  land  ! 

Thou  shalt  not  have  my  bones !  "  j- 

Long  on  the  saddened  mind  shall  stay 
The  thought  of  that  disastrous  day, 
When,  with  thy  few  brave  followers  round, 
Thou  daredst  dispute  th'  unequal  ground, 
Till  sunk  beneath  thy  mortal  wound ; 
Nor  then  —  in  the  recording  line 
Ne'er  be  it  said  —  to  yield  was  thine ; 
Till  reeling  sense  and  fainting  life 
Withheld  thee  from  the  desp'rate  strife ; 
Ne'er  was  that  bloody  banner  down, 
So  lately  starred  with  thy  renown, 


*  Alluding  to  the  refusal  of  a  vote  of  thanks  by  the  Senate  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  victory 
in  the  Hornet. 

t  Exclamation  of  Scipio  Africanus. 


OCEAN.  149 

Long  as  thy  arm  could  wield  a  sword, 
Long  as  thy  lips  could  breathe  a  word ; 
Thy  deeds,  thy  voice,  this  truth  revealed, 
That  Lawrence  never  knew  to  yield ! 
Naught  but  the  final  enemy 
Who  conquers  all  has  conquered  thee ! 

Yet  still  the  tributary  verse 
Must  flow  lamenting  round  thy  hearse ; 
For  partial  Heaven  in  thee  combined 
The  sternest  with  the  softest  mind ; 
Seemed  that  thou  wert  but  lent,  to  show 
The  rest  of  Ocean's  race  below 
How  all  the  charities  might  blend, 
Of  father,  brother,  husband,  friend, 
Till,  perfecting  the  patriot  plan, 
The  warrior  mellowed  in  the  man ! 
But,  hark !   E'en  now  what  tidings  swell ! 
Last,  but  not  least,  they  speed  to  tell 
Where  Burroughs  the  invader  spoiled, 
His  arms,  his  arts,  o'erpowered  and  foiled, 
But  in  the  struggle  fell ! 

Then  be  it  so  !     An  end  so  great 
No  sighs  but  sighs  of  envy  wait ! 


150  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

What  could  a  Roman  triumph  more, 
Than  passed  his  closing  eyes  before  ? 
With  falt'ring  hand  and  bosom  gored, 
'Twas  his  to  grasp  a  conq'ror's  sword, 
Like  gallant  Wolfe,  well  u  satisfied  " 
In  that  he  conquered,  and  he  died  ! 

Ocean !  when  storms  of  conflict  o'er, 
Shall  desolate  our  coasts  no  more, 
But  that  firm  race  of  thine  shall  come 
To  dignify  a  peaceful  home, 
O,  grant  that  race  to  prove  them,  then, 
Better  as  well  as  braver  men ; 
Wise  to  forbear,  in  civil  life, 
As  bold  to  dare  in  hostile  strife ; 
For  angel  eyes,  that  turn  afar 
Abhorrent  from  the  scenes  of  war, 
Have  yet  beheld,  with  tears  of  joy, 
Virtues  which  war  could  not  destroy ; 
That  in  the  hot  and  tempting  hour 
Of  mad  success  and  lawless  power, 
When  Av'rice,  Pride,  Revenge,  contend 
For  mastery  in  the  human  fiend, 
Could  chain  these  furies  to  their  den, 
And  make  the  victors  more  than  men ! 


OCEAN.  151 

Nor  solely  to  the  chieftain  free 
This  might  of  magnanimity ; 
Bound  many  an  humbler  head  it  glowed, 
Through  many  a  humbler  heart  it  flowed ; 
Those  who,  whate'er  their  leaders  claim, 
Must  fall,  themselves,  unknown  to  Fame ; 
Theirs  the  toil  without  the  praise ; 
The  conquest  theirs,  but  not  its  bays. 

Then  grant,  great  Ruler  of  the  Main ! 
These  virtues  they  may  long  retain ; 
So  shall  thy  waters  ne'er  be  viewed 
Without  a  burst  of  gratitude  ; 
So,  when  War's  angry  flame  retires, 
And  ling'ring,  on  thy  bed  expires, 
These,  tried  and  purified,  shall  rise, 
And,  phoenix-Hke,  ascend  the  skies. 


152  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


A    FRAGMENT. 

LONE  on  the  beatific  mound, 
When  evening's  shadows  closed  around, 
The  band  have  left  their  leader  there, 
In  orison  which  none  might  share  ; 
And  they  have  sought  the  sacred  sea, 
That  laves  the  shores  of  Galilee. 

But  had  the  adversary  power 
To  harass  in  that  darkling  hour, 
That  vengeful  turned  the  tide,  the  gale, 
Against  the  fisher's  struggling  sail  ? 
Though  stout  of  arm  and  strong  of  will, 
His  strength  is  spent  and  foiled  his  skill; 
The  night's  fourth  watch  is  almost  closed, 
Nor  the  tired  mariner  reposed. 


A   FRAGMENT.  153 

Oh !  vain  to  toil  'gainst  wind  and  wave, 

And  sunk  the  heart  the  hope  to  save, 

And  lo  !  is  yon  shape  the  mist  of  storm, 

Or  whence,  or  what,  that  dubious  form 

That  seems  athwart  the  wave  to  glide, 

That  burst  anon  our  barque  beside  ? 

Is  it  his  shade,  the  man  austere, 

Of  desert  haunts  the  deep- voiced  seer  ? 

What  dread  commission  brings  him  here  ? 

Or  is  the  shadowy  semblance  he 

Late  of  the  chosen  company, 

The  first  that  Herod's  vengeance  proved, 

The  brother  of  the  best  beloved  ? 

Comes  he  to  speak  that  brother's  doom, 

And  tell  us  of  a  wat'ry  tomb, 

At  such  dread  time  of  doubt  and  fear, 

That  aught  unearthly  should  draw  near  ? 

When  lo  !  with  face  as  beams  our  sunbeams  bright, 

With  robe  all  whitening  in  the  light, 

(But  once  again  on  Tabor's  height, 

In  after  days  they  saw  that  sight,) 

Treading  the  tempest  to  their  aid. 

He  calls  —  " 'Tis  I,  be  mt  afraid! " 

Their  leader  stands  confessed ; 

The  hushed  wind  is  at  rest, 


154  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

And  like  an  infant  at  his  will, 
Low  at  his  feet  the  wave  lies  still. 
Such  power  to  One  alone  is  given ; 
TJiat  One  on  earth)  ivho  came  from  heaven ! 

Or  when  upon  that  mystic  sea, 
We  cross  in  life's  extremity, 
When  to  worn  barque  and  shattered  sail 
No  human  art  can  more  avail, 
The  latest  night-watch  nearly  o'er, 
Nor  morning  gilds  the  distant  shore  ; 
Again  may  that  resplendent  form 
Dispel  the  cloud  and  still  the  storm, 
Come  to  the  trembling  suppliant's  aid  — 
«'TisI,le  not  afraid!" 


THE  FIRST   GRAVESTONE.  155 


THE    FIRST    GRAVESTONE. 

"And  Jacob  set  a  pillar  upon  her  grave." 

FIRST  of  primeval  monuments !  of  all 
The  long  lost  trophies  won  by  elder  Time, 
Fondly  the  mental  eye  reverts  to  thee, 
Reared  by  the  Patriarch  to  that  Syrian  spouse, 
So  beauteous,  so  beloved !  meed  of  his  toils, 
What  time,  a  wanderer  from  his  father's  house, 
He  sought  the  stranger  land,  and  twice  seven  years 
Of  labor  hard,  and  harder  outrage  proved, 
When  by  the  day  the  drought  consumed  his  strength, 
And  frost  benumbed  at  night !  yet  all  was  deemed 
But  little  for  the  love  and  hope  of  her 
Who  blessed  his  after  life ;  and  in  her  turn, 
For  sire  and  country,  friends  and  kindred  left, 
Found  him  her  all  in  all,  and  paid  him  back 
The  "  debt  immense  "  of  that  long  suffering  love. 
Nor  died  it  with  her  death ;  but  reared  this  stone 
To  witness  it  through  ages  yet  to  come. 


156  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

True,  mightier  things  have  been ;  the  mounds  where  Thebes 

Enshrines  her  nameless  dead,  and  that  famed  pile 

Of  the  world's  wonders  Artemisia  reared 

To  her  lost  lord,  then  died  for  loss  of  him ; 

Yet  tend'rer  thoughts  and  busier  phantasies 

Stray  toward  the  grave  of  Haran's  shepherdess, 

And  seek  from  Bethel's  heights  to  Ephrath's  way 

That  lonely  sepulchre ! 


THE   DEAD.  157 


THE  DEAD. 

How  happy  are  the  dead ! 
Ye  slumberers  of  the  tomb,  I  envy  you, 
Who  in  the  midst  of  this  tumultuous  world 
Have  hied  }^ou  to  a  spot  where  all  its  din 
Rolls  over  you  unheard !     My  wearied  senses, 
Vexed  with  their  lingering  vigil,  call  for  sleep 
To  seal  them  up  forever.     The  strained  eye 
Aches  with  the  force  that  wears  its  loathing  gaze 
On  things  half  wild  enough  to  make  its  ball 
Start  from  its  socket ;  and  the  ear  is  stunned, 
And  gladly  would  hold  amity  with  deafness, 
So  it  might  'scape  the  clamor  and  the  jar 
Of  this  distracted  globe ;  and  the  poor  heart  — 
The  feeling  heart,  is  sick  almost  to  death ! 
Would  it  were  quite ! 

Yes,  I  confess  it ;  nor  can  sin  be  called, 
Nor  the  stern  decalogue  itself  prohibit, 


158  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

An  envy  like  to  this ;  those  interdicts 

Guarded  alone  our  neighbor's  living  weal, 

Nor  dreamed  the  world  should  come  to  such  a  pass 

Corse  or  corruption  could  be  coveted, 

(As  Eastern  sages  failed  to  legislate 

'Gainst  parricide,  not  dreaming  such  a  crime 

Could  e'er  exist ;)  then  not  unlawfully, 

Ye  slumberers  of  the  tomb !  I  envy  you 

Your  dreamless  rest.    How  happy  are  the  dead ! 


LINES   SUGGESTED   BY   A   STUDY-CHAIR.  159 


LINES  SUGGESTED   BY  A  STUDY-CHAIR 

BELONGING  TO  THE  LATE  HORACE  HOLLEY. 

PASTOR,  philosopher,  and  friend ! 

Who  fill'st  this  sacred  seat  no  more, 
Might  I  without  presumption  bend, 

And  lean  where  thou  hast  leaned  before  ? 


Memorial  of  a  master  mind, 

With  power  to  bring  its  owner  near, 

In  living  light,  like  that  which  shined 
Throughout  his  bright  but  brief  career ; 

In  inspiration,  mien,  and  air, 

In  form  and  FRONT,  "  how  like  a  God !  " 
Such  glorious  creatures,  some  declare, 

From  higher  spheres  have  walked  abroad. 


160  POEMS   A20)   MISCELLANIES. 

Yet  those  "  called  gods  must  die  like  men," 
And  such  the  stern  and  fixed  decree 

Which  leaves  thee,  till  we  meet  again, 
But  an  immortal  memory. 

Thy  steady  stand  at  Truth's  high  call, 
Thy  eloquence  that  fought  and  won, 

Thy  courtesy  that  cared  for  all, 
Yet,  independent,  cringed  to  none; 

"With  candid  faith,  the  only  shield 

Thy  generous  zeal  would  deign  to  choose ; 

Ah,  vain  celestial  arms  to  wield 

'Gainst  arts  thyself  had  scorned  to  use  ! 

Were  but  thy  mantle  fallen  here, 
But  part  of  these,  thy  spirit's  fund, 

Where  but  a  blank  can  now  appear ; 

Who  would  have  asked  or  wished  beyond  ? 

It  may  not  be  !     But  memory  yet 
Faithful  thine  image  shall  retain ; 

Which  who  that  saw  can  e'er  forget, 
Or  look  upon  its  like  again  ? 


ON  A   WREATH.  161 


ON    A    WREATH 


BROUGHT  BY  F.  ALEXANDER  FROM  THE  TOMB  OF  ABELARD  AND  HELOISE, 
IN  PERE  LE  CHAISE. 


THE  wreath !  but  not  of  laurel  leaved, 

The  conqueror's  prize  of  yore  ; 
The  meed  of  murders  past  achieved. 

The  stimulant  to  more ! 
The  wreath !  but  not  from  off  the  vine 

The  bacchanalian's  boast, 
Of  revelry  and  wrath  the  sign, 

Of  soul  and  sense  the  cost. 
The  sabre's  flame,  the  cup's  desire, 

These  flow'rets  ne'er  have  fed  : 
Such  vanities  the  living  fire, 

These  only  deck  the  dead  ! 
A  pilgrim  to  the  funeral  shrine 

Of  famed  but  fatal  love,  to  me 
The  relic  brought ;  nor  verse  of  mine 

May  chide  the  friendly  felony : 


162  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Memorial  of  a  claim  more  near 

That  same  sepulchral  earth  enshrined, 
The  amity  of  many  a  year, 

The  cordial  heart,  the  beaming  mind, 
That,  from  its  native  TAGUS  borne, 

From  orange  groves  his  waters  lave, 
Where  flows  the  stranger  SEINE  to  mourn, 

Was  doomed  to  find  a  foreign  grave !  * 


*  Ann  Frances  Bulkley,  of  Lisbon,  widow  of  Ge'i.  Humphreys,  (re-mnrried  to  Col.  de  Walew- 
ski),  was  interred  in  Pere  le  Chaise. 


AN  INSCRIPTION.  163 


AN,   INSCRIPTION 


FOR  A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  GEN.  HUMPHREYS. 


WRITTEN   BY    REQUEST. 


[1819.] 

* 

OFT  to  departed  worth  benignant  Heaven 

A  power  of  working  miracles  has  given, 

Insensate  matter's  gloomy  rest  to  break, 

Bid  dust  be  eloquent  and  marble  speak ; 

Then  e'en  this  stone  by  future  patriots  read, 

May  bid  the  living  emulate  the  dead. 

He  who  in  youth  was  armed  for  civil  right, 

And  shared  the  dangers  braved  in  freedom's  fight, 

These  sylvan  plains,  where  first  to  life  he  sprung, 

His  sword  defended,  and  his  numbers  sung ; 

In  graver  years  the  statesman's  toil  he  proved, 

And  served  in  foreign  realms  the  land  he  loved. 


164  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Ere  age  advanced,  back  to  that  land  he  bore 
The  fleecy  treasures  of  Iberia's  shore. 
Patron  of  arts  and  guardian  of  the  state ; 
Friend  of  the  poor,  and  favored  by  the  great 
To  sum  all  titles  of  respect  in  one  — 
Here  Humphreys  rests,  beloved  of  Washington ! 


LINES   ON   A   STONE   FROM   THE  FIELD   OF  WATERLOO.  165 


LINES  ON  A  STONE  FROM  THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO. 

[  1823. ] 

SERMONS  there  are  in  stones,  the  poet  said, 

"With  more  than  poet's  truth  ;  then  surely  THIS 

May  preach  most  movingly.     Thou  stone  of  BlangUer^ 

Midway  between  the  warring  hosts,  who  met 

On  that  dire  battle-field,  where  blood  was  poured 

Like  water !  Belgian,  Briton,  German,  Gaul, 

In  one  commingling  current,  the  mad  throng 

In  mutual  rush  who  trod  thee  under  foot, 

A  slighted  pebble  —  where  and  what  are  THEY  ? 

Erst  God's  erect  and  animated  works, 

But  yet  survived  and  vaunted  over  now, 

By  such  a  thing  as  thou  art !     Thou  hast  taught 

One  awful  lesson  —  will  the  world  be  learners  ?  — 

How  small  the  gain  to  liberty,  when  man 

Attempts  to  counteract  unlicensed  power 

By  power  alike  unlicensed !     Crush  one  head, 

While  a  seven-headed  hydra  in  its  room 


166  POEMS  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Still  revels  in  its  brutal  banqueting 

Upon  the  flesh  of  nations !     What  a  cheat 

To  human  hope !     Could  stones  indeed  cry  out, 

0  thou  mute  witness !  what  a  testimony 

Were  thine  !     But  thou  art  cold  and  still,  as  they 

Who  lately  pressed  above  thee,  when  thy  surface 

Was  slippery  with  the  gore  of  gallant  hearts 

Soon  pressed  in  turn  beneath  thee  !     But  be  dumb  ! 

Would  that  no  eye  had  seen  nor  ear  had  heard, 

Nor  heart  of  man  conceived  it ! 


TO   A.    T..   AT   WASHINGTON.  •  167 


TO    A.   T.,   AT    WASHINGTON, 

WRITTEX  AT   MIDNIGHT,  DEC.  30,  1825. 

SCARCE  have  the  notes  of  yonder  bell 
Paid  to  the  parting  eve  farewell, 
And  now  'tis  greeting  loud  and  clear 
The  morning  of  the  coming  year. 
But,  (as  in  regal  states,  'tis  said 
The  grieving  for  an  old  king  dead 
Merges  his  faithful  people  through 
In  gratulation  to  the  new,) 
So  seems  that  jocund  bell  more  true 
To  sounds  of  welcome,  than  adieu  1 
As  Allegro,  with  laughing  grace, 
Shoved  Penseroso  from  her  place ; 
Or  as  that  wight  to  either  muse  * 
Addressed,  yet  if,  perforce  to  choose, 
Yielded  like  all  his  fellows  yet, 
His  preference  to  the  bright  Cadette* 

*  Vide  Sir  J.  Reynold's  Garrick  between  Tragedy 


168  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Would  that  this  heart  with  kindred  tone 

Could  beat  for  once  in  unison, 

The  Future  teach  the  Past  to  flee, 

And  Hope  take  place  of  Memory ! 

It  may  not  be,  unless  its  spell 

Could  minister  a  miracle, 

And  give  the  shapes  my  dreams  that  press 

Once  more  their  wonted  consciousness ! 

Yet  not  to  miss,  though  lone  the  time, 
The  moral  of  that  cheerful  chime, 
Forbid  it  that  my  ingrate  strain 
O'erlook  the  goods  that  yet  remain. 
For  those  around  —  for  him  apart  — 
Be  grateful  and  be  glad  'my  heart ; 
And  since  he  wends  afar,  and  may 
Not  meet  the  good  old  England  way 
Of  wishing  well  on  New  Year's  day, 
Bid  him  from  hence  the  Fates  to  grant 
All  he  can  ask,  or  wish,  or  want ; 
And  if  nought  else  this  doggerel  show, 
E'en  as  it  is,  so  let  it  go, 
Sure  in  his  eyes  to  stand  approved, 
So  early  and  so  late  beloved ; 
Loved  by  the  boy,  and  by  the  man, 
Loved  long,  ere  other  loves  began. 


A   DIRGE.  169 


A   DIRGE, 

WRITTEN  AT   THE   DECEASE   OF   JOHX  ADAMS,  JULY  4,   1826. 

PRAISE  to  the  virtuous  dead  the  Heathen  owed, 
And  funeral  game,  and  urn,  and  chant  bestowed ; 
Praise  for  the  virtuous  dead  the  Christian  claims, 
From  higher  motives,  and  with  holier  aims, 
0,  called  too  soon,  how  late  soe'r  thy  knell, 
Our  earliest,  longest  hope,  "  Hail  and  farewell!  " 
That  fiftieth  sun  who  brought  his  faithful  ray 
To  gild  thine  own,  and  Freedom's  fav'rite  day, 
His  noontide  glories  flung  around  thy  shrine, 
Nor  sunk  to  rest  till  thou  retired  to  thine ; 
That  sacred  rest  attained,  his  parting  fire 
Lit  the  wide  West  as  for  a  funeral  pyre. 

Survey  those  lineaments  —  that  open  smile, 
The  statesman's  wisdom,  not  the  statesman's  wile  — 
The  honest  front,  that  knew  itself  sincere, 
And  scorned  suspicion  as  it  scouted  fear ; 


170  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

And  hence  the  viperous  brood,  that  ceaseless  wait 
To  bask  "beneath  the  fostering  beams  of  state,* 
With  means  more  facile  found  the  unguarded  way, 
To  sting  the  gen'rous  heart  where  late  they  lay. 
Ah,  that  the  same  high  orb,  whose  smile  so  bright 
Gives  modest  worth  and  loveliest  hues  to  light, 
Which  calls  the  bee  to  rove,  the  ant  to  toil, 
And  herbs  and  flowers  to  bless  and  grace  the  soil, 
By  the  same  power  the  reptile  race  must  bring, 
And  weeds  and  thorns,  and  every  creeping  thing. 

Enough  for  thee,  that  more  than  half  an  age, 
Ruler  or  ruled,  our  father,  saint,  or  sage  — 
Missioned  from  court  to  court  —  abroad  approved  — 
At  home,  when  most  beheld  still  best  beloved  — 
Vouchers  of  thine  the  meeting  virtues  stand, 
The  stern  that  freed,  the  mild  that  cheered  the  land. 

If,  while  that  long-protracted  life  you  scan, 
Say  that  he  erred  agreed ;  for  he  was  man, 
(Eest  it  with  HIM  we  Sire  of  mercies  call, 
Sent  through  that  Son  whose  bosom  bled  for  all ;) 
From  life's  first  dawning  to  its  latest  end, 
Who  shall  demand  desert,  or  who  defend  ? 

*  Vide,  the  Cunningham  Correspondence. 


A    DIRGE.  171 

Who  boast  the  hands  so  clean,  the  heart  so  pure, 
To  turn  Inquisitor,  and  turn  secure  ? 
If  such  there  be,  to  play  such  part  who  dare  ? 
Where  are  they  found,  objector  ?     Tell  me  where. 
Still  dost  thou  cavil  ?     Strike  thy  breast  and  ask, 
If  with  his  temper  thou  hadst  had  his  task,* 
Through  all  his  trials  hadst  thou  never  swerved  ? 
By  all  his  conflicts  ne'er  hadst  been  unnerved  ? 
If  such  the  difference,  well !     But,  lest  thou  err, 
Pause  yet ;  nor  call  complexion,  character. 
His  the  wrought  marble,  rich  and  veined  all  o'er, 
But  time  and  storm  its  substance  somewhat  wore  ; 
Thine  the  rough  granite  crag,  alike  unriven 
Or  by  the  damps  of  earth  or  bolts  of  heaven. 

Though  weak  the  hand  this  votive  wreath  to  bring, 

And  faint  this  voice  the  lay  of  worth  to  sing, 

Haply  its  tones  may  wake  some  powerful  shell, 

In  nobler  numbers  noblest  deeds  to  swell. 

With  his  own  Themis  Clio  shall  engage 

To  stamp  his  name  on  their  enduring  page. 

Amidst  the  glorious  circle  of  compeers 

That  crowned  ouj  perilous  but  proudest  years, 

*  Vide  The  Letters  of  Col.  Pickering. 


172  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Record  the  champion,  whose  ingenuous  youth 

Intrepid  fought  the  righteous  fight  of  truth ; 

Then,  when,  if  ever,  public  virtue  warms ; 

Then,  when,  if  ever,  young  ambition  charms ; 

Though  all  his  country's  wrongs  the  patriot  claimed, 

And  all  his  country's  hopes  the  man  inflamed, 

Those  wrongs,  those  hopes,  his  soul  refused  to  see, 

Moved  by  thy  higher  call — Humanity !  * 

When  the  cold  blood  our  central  pavement  pressed, 

And  the  hot  blood  beat  high  in  every  breast ; 

While  an  infuriate  People's  frenzied  shout 

Held  not  its  peace,  but  bade  those  stones  cry  out ; 

E'en  mid  that  madd'ning  din  his  voice  arose, 

And  asked  for  justice  to  our  fenceless  foes ; 

Bade  Passion's  surges  rage  not,  but  be  still, 

And  Law  and  Reason  sway  the  public  will ; 

And,  as  the  oil  on  ocean's  subject  wave 

Has  power  to  lull  it,  till  it  cease  to  rave, 

His  suasive  accents  dropped  as  charms,  to  bind 

The  hoarser  tumult  of  tempestuous  mind ! 

Such  the  fair  promise  of  his  opening  year, 
Such  the  rich  harvest  of  his  ripe  career ; 

*  His  defence  of  the  British  soldiery,  4th  March,  1775. 


A   DIRGE.  173 

Gathered  to  great  and  good,  renowned  of  yore, 

In  classic  haunts  long  communed  with  before  ; 

With  those  of  his  own  time  —  the  wise,  the  brave, 

Who  lived  to  serve  the  state,  or  died  to  save. 

What  else  need  grateful  Mem'ry  ask  or  tell  ? 

Once  more,  Illustrious  Dead,  "HAIL  and  FAREWELL!  " 

43 


174  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


ODE 

TO   WHOM   IT   CONCERNS. 
[  1832.  ] 

O  CAROLINA  !  wilt  thou  sever 

The  silver  cord  so  long  confessed  ? 
And  must  our  nation's  eagle  never 

His  wing  on  thy  Palmetto  rest  ? 
Wrenched  from  thy  course  by  these  wild  jars, 

Madly  through  space  to  run ; 
Wilt  thou  forsake  the  fixed  stars, 

To  be  a  wandering  one  ? 

Star  of  the  South !  that  wont  to  gleam 

So  steady  and  so  bright, 
Shedding  afar  its  guiding  beam 

Through  War's  tempestuous  night ; 


ODE.  175 

When  England's  "  meteor  flag  "  full  high 

"  Terrific  burned  "  o'er  all, 
Between  us  and  the  darkened  sky, 

Like  'scutcheoned  funeral  pall ; 


Star  of  the  South !  thy  glorious  ray 

O'erpowered  that  boding  glare, 
Till  the  broad  banner,  rent  away, 

No  more  could  menace  there. 
Long  as  the  rescuing  blade  was  bared 

That  cut  our  passage  free, 
The  danger  dared,  the  duty  shared, 

Canst  thou  forget  ?  can  we  ? 

0,  land  of  Marion  and  his  band, 

That,  ever  tried  and  true, 
With  gallant  heart,  with  strenuous  hand, 

The  same,  yet  ever  new, 
"  Came,  saw  and  conquered,"  like  the  sprite 

More  than  like  mortal  men, 
And  sped  them  as  the  arrowy  flight, 

That  none  knew  where  or  when. 


176  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Land  of  the  Laurens' !  son  and  sire, 

Each  peerless  in  his  place, 
A  Spartan  pair,  a  seed  of  fire, 

Like  Lacedsemon's  race. 
He,  captive  in  the  ocean  strife, 

Immured  in  foreign  thrall, 
Who  perilled  fortune,  freedom,  life, 

At  stubborn  duty's  call. 

Yet,  while  the  Julian  towers  confined 

Their  veteran  prisoner  fast, 
The  mantle  of  that  dauntless  mind 

Was  to  his  first-born  cast ; 
Last  victim  of  an  hostile  hour, 

Nor  less  heroic  he, 
Who  fell,  in  life,  in  death,  the  flower 

Of  Carolina's  chivalry ! 

Then  did  the  reign  of  Peace  reveal 

Throughout  its  better  day, 
The  gentler,  not  less  generous  zeal, 

That  cheered  our  common  way. 
Whene'er  disease  had  forced  to  flee, 

Or  feel  its  deadlier  thrust, 
We  yielded  all  we  loved  to  thee, 

Nor  thou  refused  the  trust. 


ODE.  177 


Thy  luscious  fruits,  thy  sunny  sky,    ' 

Thy  bland  and  balmier  air, 
And  more  than  all  that  these  supply, 

Thy  hospitable  care ; 
All  thine,  the  sufferer  felt  was  ours, 

Who  helplessly  had  come, 
But  found,  within  a  stranger's  bowers, 

The  kindly  hearts  of  home. 

No  half  disgust  that  scarce  could  hush, 

E'er  made  thy  greeting  tame  ; 
No  dread  lest  that  strange  hectic  flush 

Might  sere  thee  with  its  flame ; 
Reckless  of  selfish  risk  or  not, 

Watchful  but  to  befriend ; 
0  God !  and  is  it  all  forgot, 

And  is  it  all  to  end  ? 


The  wise,  the  weak,  who  dwell  at  ease, 
From  storm  and  strife  apart, 

May  marvel  at  the  blasts  that  freeze 
The  tempest-beaten  heart. 


178  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Let  statists  calmly  count  thy  throes, 
Let  fools  thy  cause  malign ; 

The  bosom  its  own  burden  knows  — 
I  may  not  measure  thine. 

And,  lo  !  the  threat  is  on  thy  tongue, 

The  scowl  is  on  thy  brow ; 
Yet,  Carolina !  ours  so  long, 

Do  not  desert  us  now ; 
Forbid  that  present  interests  screen  — 

Or  right  or  wrong  —  from  thee 
The  memory  of  what  once  has  been, 

The  hope  of  what's  to  be. 

Alas !  how  old  so'er  the  tale, 

'Tis  not  less  true  than  trite, 
Wherever  kindred  feuds  prevail, 

Neither  is  fully  right. 
Yet  man  in  every  age  and  clime 

His  story  well  has  shown, 
Perversely  scans  his  brother's  crime, 

And  recks  not  of  his  own. 


ODE.  179 


For  us  may  better  views  betide 

Than  such  a  half  survey, 
Nor  narrowing  mists  prevail  to  hide 

What  truth  the  times  convey ; 
But  patriots  still,  afar  or  nigh, 

Till  civil  discords  cease,* 
Echo  impartial  Carey's  sigh, 

For  party  not,  but  "  Peace ! " 


*  Lucius  Carey,  Lord  Falkland.  His  disinterested  dread  of  the  ultimate  success  of  either  side, 
his  own  or  the  opposite,  from  a  conviction  of  the  injury  that  would  ensue  to  the  common  weal, 
and  his  choice  of  death  rather  than  life,  (a  death  so  gallantly  sought  and  found,)  that  he  might 
not  witness  what  he  could  not  avert,  must  be  familiar  to  all  who  are  conversant  with  the  story  of 
the  English  civil  wars. 


180  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


TO    M- 


[  1832.  ] 

THE  first  fruits  for  thine  album's  store, 
Mary  !  another  hand  should  bring ; 

The  far-fetched  boon  is  valued  more 
Than  the  familiar  offering. 

And  wherefore  need  this  tell-tale  page 
Proclaim  to  strangers  o'er  and  o'er, 

What  should  alone  thine  ear  engage,  — 
But  that  thou  know'st  it  all  before. 


That  since  our  being's  earliest  source, 
As  o'er  the  stream  of  life  we  glide, 

One  chart  below  to  mark  our  course, 
One  star  above  that  course  to  guide ; 


181 


Nearest  in  blood,  in  heart  as  near, 

Through  all  our  fair  or  stormy  weather, 

Like  LADIES  OF  THE  LAKE,  we  steer 
Our  simple  shallop  still  TOGETHER. 

And  let  what  winds  or  tides  prevail, 
(Until  the  final  blast  upset  her,) 

u  THE  SISTERS  "  still  imparted  sail, 
And  I  for  one  will  ask  no  better ! 

45 


182  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 


LINES  TO  A  WALL-FLOWER  FROM  THE  COLISEUM. 

[  1832.  ] 

NAY,  grieve  not  if  thy  flow'ret  sent  — 

The  promise  of  the  Latian  year  — 
With  faded  tints  and  foliage  bent, 

And  broken  stem  should  now  appear. 


For  sure  these  aspects  of  decay, 
Fitlier  its  native  scenes  recall, 

Than  when  in  golden  front,  so  gay, 
It  flaunted  o'er  a  Roman  wall. 


Where  erst  the  marvel  of  the  world  — 
A  tottering  arch,  a  crumbled  way  — 

If  Ruin's  hand  on  those  was  hurled, 

Should  this  endure  more  firm  than  they  ? 


LINES    TO   A   WALL-FLOWER   FROM   THE   COLISEUM.  183 

Yet  might  the  muse  invest  the  flower 

(As  legendary  lays  pretend) 
With  sentient  life  and  vocal  power, 

'T  would  thus  its  life  and  death  defend  — 

"  Wand'rer  and  witness  of  our  days ! 

Behold  to  things  like  us  'tis  given, 
In  answer  to  the  asking  gaze, 
To  vindicate  the  ways  of  heaven. 

u  Though  quickened  into  life  and  bloom, 

Our  roots  have  sprung  from  Christian  gore, 
When  at  some  royal  murd'rers  doom 
Then:  blood  like  water  wont  to  pour. 

"  Ere  gathered  to  our  parent  earth 

Mindful  of  its  avenging  call, 
The  flower  that  owed  th'  oppressed  its  birth, 
Shall  triumph  in  the  oppressor's  fall.  _ 

"  Shall  round  his  shattered  column  sport, 

O'er  all  its  prostrate  pride  elate  ; 
And  glitter  'mid  its  mould'ring  court, 
In  mockery  of  their  buried  state ! 


184  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

"  Then,  when  its  destined  work  is  done, 

No  more  its  leafy  flag  shall  wave, 
But  duteous  end  where  it  begun, 
And  deck  in  death  the  martyr's  grave  ! " 


TO    OUR   JAVA    SPARROWS.  185 


TO   OUR  JAVA  SPARROWS. 

JANUAKY,  1839. 

FAIR  warblers  from  a  summer  clime, 
Who  bid'st  with  us  in  wint'ry  time, 
Though  cold  the  soil  on  which  we  live, 
Warm  is  the  welcome  that  we  give. 

Companions  to  our  kinsman  given, 
Through  boisterous  days,  and  tempest  driven, 
And  tossed  through  many  a  rougher  night, 
The  feathered  freight  still  kept  aright, 
Still  followed  in  his  billowy  track, 
Cheering  the  bark  that  brought  him  back, 
And  chirped  and  hopped  the  time  away, 
As  blithe  as  on  their  native  spray ! 

But  now,  with  frost  encompassed  round, 
And  captives  on  a  foreign  ground, 


18G  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Far  from  their  Java's  spicy  grove, 
No  more  with  early  mates  to  rove ; 
Though  freedom,  country,  clime  be  lost, 
That  sprightly  carol  is  not  crossed. 
With  Quaker  coat,  and  beaver  on, 
And  smooth  white  collar,  neck  upon, 
And  ruddy  beak  of  healthiest  hue, 
Cheerful  they  meet  my  morning  view, 
And  doffed  the  curtain  from  the  day, 
Quick  hail'st  it  with  their  matin  lay. 

Brave  birds  !   ah,  would'  that  such  as  we 
Meet  lesson  might  have  learned  from  ye  ! 
Despite  of  change  and  season  drear, 
Still  with  unconquered  note  to  cheer. 
Pick  each  sweet  seed,  howe'er  astray, 
And  cast  the  refuse  husk  away, 
Sip  the  clear  stream,  where'er  'tis  given, 
And  look  up,  thankfully,  to  Heaven ! 


LITTLE    CANARY.  187 


LITTLE     CANARY. 

AFFAIRS  of  state  so  excited  of  late 
That  even  the  feathered  creation 
To  politics  made  their  pretension, 
Left  their  shady  retreat 
The  emergence  to  meet, 
Sending  one  of  their  swift  delegation, 
The  fleetest  for  settling  the  nation, 
To  fly  to  the  Whig  Convention. 

From  what  part  of  the  country  come 

He  has  not  said  nor  sung, 
But  a  naturalized  foreigner  he 
This  Whiggie  appeareth  to  be, 
Since  up  to  the  chamber  he  made  his  way, 
And  into  the  cage  where  it  hung 
He  very  familiarly  sprung, 

Helped  himself  to  what  edibles  round  about  lay, 
Seemed  very  contented  and  happy  to  stay, 
And  made  himself  quite  at  home. 


188  FOEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

With  a  bright,  new,  straw-colored  vest, 
And  a  uniform  coat  and  crest, 
And  a  carol  can  vie  with  the  best, 
In  praise  of  the  Chief  of  the  West! 
Nor  has  Harrison  any 
'Mongst  all  of  the  many 
In  his  canvass,  or  farther  or  nearer, 
With  voices  or  consciences  clearer 
(However  they  vary) 
Than  constituent  Canary, 
Who  has  turned,  for  his  tribe,  'Lectioneer. 


THE    DEAD    BIRD.  189 


THE    DEAD    BIRD. 

DEAR  Bird,  that  late  inspired  the  lay, 
Unnoticed  shouldst  thou  pass  away  ? 
Whose  life,  whose  death,  excited  here 
Friendship's  fond  care  and  final  tear  ? 
No  !  to  thy  fate  shall  not  refuse 
Her  dirge  the  moralizing  muse, 
Taught  hy  thyself  each  changing  moon, 
To  keep  the  voice  in  cheerful  tune. 
Through  summer  bright  or  winter  hoar 
Above  the  ills  of  earth  to  soar, 
So  might  her  days  like  thine  be  past, 
Cherished  and  solaced  to  the  last ; 
Then  be  her  lot  like  thine,  to  die 
Without  a  struggle  or  a  cry ! 

47 


190  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES, 


TO    LITTLE    «WAG." 

[1853.] 

AH,  darling  dog,  thou  canst  not  know 
What  tears  were  shed  for  thee ! 

And  there  be  those  might  meet  their  flow 
With  smiling  mockery. 

Yet  who  that  owns  a  human  heart, 
From  friend  of  twelve  long  years, 

Proved  and  found  perfect,  e'er  could  part, 
And  yet  refrain  from  tears  ? 

Companion  of  our  couch  by  night, 
Beneath  our  board  by  day, 

Content  while  we  remained  in  sight, 
But  sorrowing  when  away, 

Still  watching  at  the  window-pane, 
Or  guarding  on  the  ground 

Erect,  the  proffered  boon  to  gain, 
Or  pranking  all  around, 


TO    LITTLE  "WAG."  191 

In  frolic  play  to  catch  away 

The  slipper  as  it  dropped, 
And  force  us,  fleet  in  stocking-feet, 

To  chase  him  ere  he  stopped. 

Too  mannerly  to  take  the  lead 

On  stairway  or  at  door, 
Waiting  (unlike  the  human  breed) 

Till  others  went  before. 

The  ready  food  from  morn  till  eve 

Untasted  might  remain 
When  separate,  till  at  our  return 

He  banqueted  again ! 

In  journeyings  nestling  at  our  side, 

Or  crouching  at  our  feet, 
Well  pleased  alike  to  walk  or  ride, 

A  guest  our  hosts  to  greet. 

Yet,  when  the  ringing  bells  would  prove 

The  Sabbath's  wonted  sign, 
Aware  with  us  he  must  not  move, 

He'd  tranquilly  recline ; 


192  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Prompt  in  our  cause  his  aid  to  lend, 
And  zealous  service  show ; 

Wagging  his  welcome  to  a  friend, 
But  barking  off  a  foe. 

Grateful  for  kindly  word  or  will, 
Most  patient  when  in  pain, 

With  laboring  breath,  caressing  still 
The  hand  that  would  sustain  ! 

And,  if  the  grace  of  love  and  trust 
Fit  beings  for  the  sky, 

The  spirit  that  informed  that  dust 
May  claim  its  place  on  high. 

How  this  may  be  I  cannot  see, 
Since  there  is  none  to  show, 

And  those  that  frown  such  fancy  down 
Themselves  as  little  know. 

At  least,  I'M  SURE,  and  make  an  end, 

This  marvel  has  occurred, 

One  funeral  record  has  been  penned 

Without  a  flattering  word  I 


THE  WIFE  OF  SEATON 


THE     SIEGE     OF     BERWICK 


AN    HISTORIC   TRAGEDY. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


ALEXANDER  SEATON, Governor  of  the  Town. 

PATRICK  DUNBAR, Of  the  Castle. 

FRIAR. 

EDWARD    III., King  of  England. 

MORDAUNT,  1 

NEVILLE,     j 
ATTENDANTS,  &c. 

DONALDUS, A  Seer. 

LADY  AGNES  SEATON, Wife  to  the  Governor. 

MARGARET, Her  Attendant. 


I  His  Envoys. 


INVOCATION. 


GENIUS  of  Celtic  Song  !  who,  high  enthroned 

Amid  lona's  hallowed  sepulchres, 

Hath  dread  communings  with  a  buried  world  ! 

Thou,  who  disowning  all  Ausonia  yields 

To  fix  poetic  gaze  —  on  contrasts  strong 

Of  ruined  grandeur  and  luxurious  life, 

Art's  noblest  forms  decaying  —  tantalized 

By  ever  blooming  Nature,  (where  the  rose 

Flaunts  through  the  chasms  of  Antonius'  wall, 

And  balmy  breezes  sport,  and  laughing  suns 

Shine,  as  in  mockery,  o'er  the  fallen  domes 

Where  once  the  Caesars  swayed !)  from  these  hast  turned 

With  Spartan  scorn  thy  tread,  to  rear  a  seat 

Far  in  the  lone  Ebudse  ;  where,  for  voice 

Of  man  or  note  of  bird,  no  sound  is  heard 

But  the  contending  ocean's  ceaseless  roar 

'Gainst  the  bold  rock  that  dares  oppose  his  force, 

And  breast,  with  craggy  front,  his  onward  way. 


198  POEMS    AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Genius  of  Celtic  Song !  if  haunts  like  these 

Have  power  to  win  thee  from  the  southern  muse  — 

If,  wedded  to  thy  country  still,  thy  soul 

Prefer  that  bride,  unportioned  though  she  be, 

With  cliffs  and  deserts  only  for  her  dower, 

To  Tuscan  vineyards  or  Hindostan  groves  — 

If  Scotia's  native  ruggedness  of  clime 

From  all  refinements  of  a  richer  soil 

Still  hold  thy  constant  heart  —  take  then  this  lay, 

To  Scotia  consecrate !    And  should  its  tones 

But  wake  one  note  accordant  with  the  sounds 

That  oft  have  called  thy  mountain  echoes  forth 

To  speak  the  glories  of  thy  native  sons, 

O,  grant  thine  inspiration  to  the  theme, 

And  give  the  muse  that  aid  which  can  perform 

Those  miracles  of  chronicles  and  song  — 

Roll  back  the  tide  of  far  receded  time, 

Restore  the  Douglas  days  —  awake  the  dead  ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  SEATON. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  1.     A  room  in  the  Governor's  home.     SEATON  alone,  leaning 
on  a  table  covered  ivith  maps,  plans,  &c. 

SEATON. 

MY  native  country,  what  a  fate  is  thine ! 
Thy  Bruce  no  more,  his  infant  son  afar, 
His  faithful  Regent  treacherously  slain, 
His  rival,  Baliol,  roused  again  to  arm 
In  contest  for  the  crown  —  scarred  as  thou  art 
With  former  wounds,  and  must  thou  bleed  afresh, 
From  the  remorseless  blows  of  civil  war  ? 
Yet  more,  those  home-bred  feuds  have  proved  the  heralds 
Of  foreign  war,  and  now  its  best  ally, 
As  these  three  ling'ring,  suffering  months  can  witness, 
Since  haughty  Edward,  with  a  chosen  host, 
Buckled  his  armor  on  and  spurred  his  steed 
To  Berwick's  menaced  walls. 


200  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

(Enter  ATTENDANT.) 
ATTENDANT. 

My  lord !  the  envoys, 
The  British  envoys  seek  you. 

SEAT  ON. 

Strait  admit  them, 

Then,  Walter,  to  the  castle's  commandant, 
Greet  him  from  me,  and  ask  his  presence  hither. 
(Exit  ATTENDANT.     Enter  NEVILLE  and  MORDAUNT.) 

NEVILLE. 

Hail  we  not  here  Sir  Alexander  Seaton, 
The  Governor  of  Berwick  ? 

SEATON. 

You  are  right ; 

I  own  the  name  and  office,  with  the  purpose 
Ne'er  to  discredit  either. 

NEVILLE. 
Be  it  so ! 

Like  trait  is  ours  in  this  our  embassage. 
We  bear  a  message  from  our  royal  master, 
Edward  of  England. 

SEATON. 

What  hath  England's  king 
For  Seaton's  hearing  ? 


THE   WIFE   OF   BEATON.  201 

MORDAUNT. 

Even  to  demand 

The  town's  surrender  as  our  monarch's  right, 
And  holden  by  his  father's  heretofore, 
Ere  farther  loss  of  time,  and  wealth,  and  life, 
Serve  to  impoverish  you,  exasperate  him, 
And  make  the  path  to  future  peace  and  concord 
Less  easy  than  the  present     We  have  said. 

SEAT  ON. 

I  will  convene  the  council,  and  impart 
Promptly  their  answer ;  meantime,  worthy  Barons, 
If  such  poor  cheer  as  times  like  these  allow 
Meet  your  regard,  betake  you  to  our  board. 

NEVILLE. 
We  are  beholden  to  your  courtesy. 

SEAT  ON. 

Myself  the  Lady  Agnes  will  apprise 
What  guests  do  honor  us.     She  hath  a  son, 
Alas  !  within  your  custody,  and  doubtless 
Will  profit  of  your  presence  to  indulge 
A  mother's  fond  inquiries.     This  way,  sirs. 


202  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

SCENE  2.     Another  apartment.    MORDAUNT,  NEVILLE  discovered,  to 
whom  enter  SEATON  and  DUNBAR. 

SEATON. 

Barons,  the  Scottish  Council  have  decreed 
That  I  should  thus  reply  unto  your  mission  : 
Berwick  was  always  ours,  till  thirst  of  power 
Prompted  your  monarch's  warlike  ancestor 
By  violence  to  seize  it ;  but  when  Bruce, 
Our  glorious  champion,  won  his  country  back 
From  its  usurpers,  Berwick  with  the  rest 
Resumed  its  ancient  government  and  laws. 
But  more, ;  the  right  of  conquest  thus  obtained, 
By  right  of  treaty  was  confirmed ;  for,  pressed 
And  counselled  by  the  wise  men  of  his  land, 
Four  years  ago  your  English  King  renounced 
All  right  himself  or  his  forefathers  claimed 
To  Scotland's  crown,  and  swore  to  leave  its  realm 
Free  as  it  was  ere  the  contending  claims 
Of  Bruce  or  Baliol  rose,  pressed  by  no  yoke 
Of  foreign  servitude ;  even  to  return 
All  scrolls  of  compacts,  bonds,  or  whatsoe'er 
Might  seem  a  vestige  of  a  subject  state  ; 
And,  on  our  part,  we  promised  to  repay 
A  stipulated  sum  for  those  domains 
By  Edward  and  his  sires  possessed  among  us, 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  203 

To  yield  to  him  our  lands  in  England  held, 
And  even  to  consider  Stanmore's  cross 
Our  utmost  boundary.     To  fix  this  league 
We  farther  fastened  on  the  added  tie 
Of  family  and  friend ;  our  Prince  espoused 
The  sister  of  your  sovereign,  and  the  names 
Of  Robert  and  of  Henry  to  our  ears 

Were  as  the  names  of  brothers. 

• 

Wherefore,  then, 

Have  we  been  thus  assailed  with  secret  art 
And  open  warfare,  while  ourselves  in  aught 
Had  ne'er  infringed  those  articles  of  peace, 
Nor  would  reject  it  now  on  any  terms, 
So  they  were  honorable? 

MORDAUNT. 

Is  this  all? 

SEATON. 

This  for  your  monarch ;  for  yourselves,  as  missioned 

To  mediate  between  us,  we  would  urge 

A  claim  to  favorable  offices ; 

Such  as  may  seem  to  you  as  but  comporting 

With  duty  to  your  country ;  well  persuaded 

You  cannot  prove  yourselves  less  true  to  Edward 

By  being  just  to  Scotland.     You  are  answered. 


204  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

MORDAUNT. 

I  am  concerned  our  orders  should  insist 

Plainly  and  positively  on  this  point, 

Stated  at  first  —  the  rendering  up  of  Berwick. 

SEATON. 

But,  surely,  you  did  not  at  first  exact 
Instant  surrender. 

NEVILLE. 

Truly,  no,  we  did  not ; 
And  to  the  farthest  we  are  authorized 
To  grant  you,  will  we  go.     Take  a  given  time  ; 
Name  it  yourself;  till  which,  if  no  relief 
Come  to  the  garrison,  (aware  tha£  soon 
The  Douglas  will  arrive,)  you  then-  consent 
To  yield  it  to  our  arms. 

SEATON. 

I  must  consent ! 

Unwilling  howsoe'er.     Too  well  you  know 
I  have  no  choice.     'Tis  now  the  thirteenth  day 
Of  our  midsummer  month ;  if  ere  the  thirtieth 
No  succors  reach  the  town  from  Douglas'  force, 
I  yield  it  up. 


THE    WIFE    OF    SEATON.  205 

MORDAUNT. 

But  further,  our  instructions 
Demand  that,  as  a  pledge  for  the  performance 
Of  this  engagement  on  your  part,  your  son, 
(Twin-born  with  him  who  now  is  pris'ner  with  us,) 
Be  rendered  for  an  hostage. 

SEATON. 

My  poor  Duncan ! 

Must  he,  too,  go  ?     His  brother's  early  valor 
Already  had  betrayed  him  to  captivity ; 
Must  I  be  reft  of  both  ? 

DUNBAR. 

You  press  us  hardly ; 

As  men,  as  knights,  I  put  it  to  yourselves ; 
Are  not  these  harsh  conditions  ? 

NEVILLE. 

Tis  not  ours 

To  make  them  easier ;  though,  to  your  discretion, 
I  own  the  wish  that  they  were  otherwise. 

MORDAUNT. 

Our  worthy  host  and  his  compeer  are  each 

Too  well  informed  upon  a  soldier's  duty 

Not  to  acknowledge  it  the  part  of  such 

But  to  discharge  their  orders  —  not  dispute  them. 


206  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

DUNBAR. 

Yet  soldiers  do  remonstrate ;  aye,  rebel, 

When  their  own  rights,  or  real  or  supposed, 

Have  seemed  to  be  impaired ;  their  pay  withheld ; 

Their  privileges  lowered  ;  causes  like  these 

Sometimes  create  such  things  as  mutinies, 

Even  in  English  armies.     But  for  injury 

Done  toward  others  —  for  a  stranger's  wrong  — 

Then  to  expect  resistance  or  regret 

Were  all  too  high  or  low  for  sober  manhood  — 

Chimerical  or  childish. 

NEVILLE. 

Little  know  ye 

The  mind  of  him  we  serve,  if  you  imagine 
That  aught  in  us  were  prevalent  to  alter 
His  strenuous  will,  or  check  his  dread  resolve 
On  sovereignty  here. 

DUXBAR. 

Vain  expectation ! 

Can  iron  break  the  northern  iron  ?    No  ! 
Ours  is  yet  harder  metal  than  your  own. 
Witness  the  many  shocks  by  which  'twas  bent, 
But  never  yet  was  riven.     Your  Koman  master 
Obtained  no  mastery  here.     His  legions  scaled 
Our  cliffs  in  vain ;  and  to  his  eagle's  scream 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  207 

Athwart  our  cliffs,  was  borne  with  echo  back, 
Answering  defiance  from  our  native  eyrie. 
Since  then  the  like  assault  hath  still  received 
The  like  discomfiture  ;  our  frigid  clime 
Had  reared  a  race  too  rough  for  the  grim  Norman 
Or  bloodier  Dane  to  quell. 

MORDAUNT. 

The  more  the  glory 
If  we  succeed. 

DUNBAR. 

How  far  succeed,  I  pray  ? 
What  if  a  castle  fall,  a  town  be  taken  ? 
Dream  not  that  Scotland  is  subdued !  that  stake, 
So  long  contested,  cannot  thus  be  won. 
Behold  the  board  whereon  the  game  is  played ! 
Look  far  and  wide ;  each  rock  shall  prove  a  castle, 
Each  crag  a  tower,  each  cave  a  walled  city ; 
Kamparts  of  strength,  on  which  the  miner,  Nature, 
Hath  wrought  so  secretly,  and  surely,  too, 
That  human  prowess  vainly  may  assail 
The  superhuman  barrier, 

MORDAUNT. 

Nay,  go  on ; 

Stop  not  with  Nature,     Canst  not  tell  us  somewhat 
Of  marvels  passing  Nature,  which  your  Celts 
Have  long  had  credit  for  ? 


208  POEMS    AND   MISCELLANIES. 

DUNBAR. 

Did  I  think  meet 

For  tongue  of  sturdy  soldier  or  the  ear 
Of  Christian  knights  to  note  such  fantasies  — 
For  such  they  seem,  albeit  they  may  be  more  — 
There  were  enough  to  occupy  more  time 
Than,  by  the  strictness  of  our  several  callings, 
Could  now  be  warranted.     Of  sprites  that  haunt 
Our  Caledonian  forests,  all  their  own, 
With  nameless  mischiefs  for  intruding  alien ; 
Of  shapes  that  people  all  our  Highland  mists, 
And  spread  its  dimness  on  the  eyes  beneath 
They  would  bewilder  ;  of  the  goblin  brood 
That  prank  them  ever  in  our  lochs  and  fens 
To  lose  the  wanderer  by  the  light  that  leads  him. 

Enough  of  these. 

NEVILLE. 

But  you  did  not  include 

The  strange  pretensions  of  those  bold  diviners 
Who  claim  to  call  the  future  —  and  it  cometh  ? 

DUNBAR. 

True,  Englishmen,  I  did  not ;  for,  believe  me, 
There's  more  of  might,  whate'er  of  mystery, 
In  this  than  merits  scoffing ;  nor  would  I 
To  stranger  eyes  expose  a  gift  thus  solemn ; 
The  less  that,  peradventure,  at  some  period, 
Themselves  may  mark  its  power. 

(Enter  DONALDUS  behind,  unperceived  by  all  lut  Seaton.) 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  209 

SEAT  ON. 

They  mark  it  now. 

DONALDUS. 

Woe !  woe ! 

SEATON. 

To  whom  denounced  ? 
To  whom,  Donaldus? 

DONALDUS. 

To  all ;  to  thee,  good  Seaton,  even  to  thee  ! 
Thou  and  thine  house.     The  hovering  pestilence 
Strikes  down  the  righteous  with  the  reprobate. 
The  dogs  of  war  once  out,  the  bloodhounds  track 
No  less  the  anchorite  in  his  hermitage 
Than  robber  in  his  den.     Woe,  then,  to  Scotland ! 
And  woe  to  England,  too,  the  ruthless  cause ! 

Woe  to  us  all ! 

[ExU. 

DUNBAR. 

It  is  the  gifted  seer, 

Who,  hand  in  hand  with  dark  Futurity, 
Sees  that,  to  others  without  form  and  void, 
Moulded  to  shape,  and  fraught  with  circumstance. 

NEVILLE. 

Truly,  an  awful  presence !  felt  you  not  (to  MORDAUNT) 
As  with  the  disembodied  ? 


210  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

MORDAUNT. 

But,  my  comrade, 

Be  that  as  may,  our  business  toucheth  not 
The  world  of  spirits,  but  concerneth  merely 
Such  an  inferior  sphere,  that  I  would  counsel 
We  put  the  warning  to  some  present  use ; 
Letting  it  hasten  us  in  our  leave-taking, 
Soon  as  the  Governor  prepare  his  hostage 
To  bear  us  company. 

SEATON. 

I'll  not  detain  you ; 
What  must  be,  must !     Go  with  me  now. 

DUNBAR. 

Then,  sirs, 

Fare  you  well,  hence,  in  all  but  your  attempts 
Against  my  country. 

NEVILLE. 

With  like  reservation, 
Prosperity  to  you. 

MORDAUNT. 

Good  Commandant, 
The  same  from  me. 

[Exit  all. 

ENB  OF  THE  FIRST  ACT. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  211 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  1.     The  interior  of  Benvick   Castle.     DUNBAK  discovered,  to 
tvkom  enters  the  FRIAK. 

FEIAK. 

Save  you,  son ! 

I  do  attend  your  summons,  and  would  now 
Inquire  its  cause. 

DUNBAK. 

\  The  troops  of  Douglas,  father, 

Have  just  arrived,  in  sight  of  friends  and  enemies, 
And  halted  on  the  Hill  of  Halidon. 

FRIAR. 

St.  Andrew  speed  them !     This  is  welcome  news. 

DUNBAR. 

Aye,  father,  but  the  news  is  overburdened 
With  heaviest  tidings  for  our  worthy  Governor. 
The  faithless  king,  despite  his  stipulation 
To  stay  proceedings  till  the  day  appointed, 
And  reckless  of  the  truce  yet  unexpired, 
Has  sent  a  threat  unless  the  place  be  yielded, 
That  he  will  order  summary  execution 
On  both  the  sons  of  Seaton. 


212  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

FRIAR. 

Barbarous  monster ! 
What  must  —  what  can  be  done  ? 

DUNBAR. 

I  stopped  the  herald 

Before  he  reached  the  wretched  Governor, 
And  took  upon  myself  to  bear  the  message  ; 
That,  haply,  it  be  told  him  in  some  manner 
Shorn  of  its  first  ferocity.     For  this 
Did  I  despatch  the  page  to  you,  good  father, 
To  ask  this  Christian  service  at  your  hands, 
That  you  would  break  the  matter  as  you  may 
Unto  the  parents  of  these  fated  cliildf  en. 

FRIAR. 

Well  may  I  shudder  at  my  woeful  errand, 

Yet  must  not  shrink  from  it.     But  what  dost  think  ? 

WiUSeaton  — 

DUNBAR. 

Ask  me  not  —  I  cannot  think, 
Cannot  advise,  in  circumstance  thus  shocking. 
No  sire  myself,  how  could  I  counsel  others 
To  that  which  I  can  ne'er  be  called  to  suffer  ? 
How  estimate  such  call  ?     It  were  presumptuous ! 
Nay,  it  were  obdurate !     Well  you  know  that  Seaton 
Is  worthiest  of  the  worthy ;  brave,  yet  sage ; 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATOX.  213 

Sparing,  albeit,  in  words,  but  full  in  judgment ; 

With  wariest  caution,  skilled  to  counteract 

The  inconsiderate  sallies  of  the  rash, 

And  to  conciliate  the  feuds  of  others 

By  the  example  of  his  own  forbearance. 

All  this  he  is ;  and  if  he  have  a  weakness, 

'Tis  for  his  sons  —  as,  sometimes,  the  best  blades 

May  yield  the  most  —  the  proudest,  tenderest  parent ; 

Fond,  e'en  to  dotage  ;  (and,  in  truth,  the  bantlings 

Do  well  become  it ;)  hence,  I  doubt  his  course, 

In  exigence  so  sharp,  and  my  reliance 

Leans  with  more  fixedness  upon  his  consort. 

FRIAR. 

The  noble  Agnes ! 

DUNBAR. 

To  her  ghostly  guardian 
I  need  not  urge  how  well  the  loftier  traits 
Of  an  heroic  soul  are  blent  in  hers, 
With  all  the  touching  tenderness  of  woman. 

FRIAR. 

I  long  have  noted  it. 


214  POEMS    AND   MISCELLANIES. 

DUNBAR. 

So  have  I,  from  the  first.     My  own  near  kinswoman, 

And,  had  my  fortune  favored,  I  had  aimed 

To  make  her  somewhat  nearer ;  failing  that, 

I  do  rejoice  her  lot  has  fallen  to  one 

Who,  far  as  man  can  merit,  merits  her, 

And  willingly  could  forfeit  one  poor  life 

But  to  have  kept  from  both  an  hour  like  this ! 

FRIAR. 

These  sufferings  of  the  good,  my  son,  are  mysteries 
Beyond  our  fathoming. 

DUNBAR. 

They  are  so,  father. 

Now  to  our  several  tasks.     Thou  to  the  Seatons, 
I  to  attend  the  herald,  whose  safe  conduct 
I  must  inspect,  lest  the  exasperate  sentinel 
Should  follow  Edward's  lead,  and  disregard 
The  known  immunities  of  time  and  person. 


THE  WIFE   OF   SEATON.  215 

SCENE  2.     The  front  of  the  castle.    Enter  DONALDUS. 

DONALDUS. 

Ah,  sinful  Scotland!  'tis  thine  own  offences 

That  toss  thee  now  with  tempests.     Had  thy  sons 

Been  true  to  thee  and  to  themselves,  and  proved 

A  hardy  brotherhood,  still  leagued  together 

For  mutual  weal  or  woe,  rather  than  prowled, 

A  horde  of  bandits,  bent  against  each  other 

In  predatory  warfare  —  then,  indeed, 

What  could  have  wrought  them  harm  ?  had  they  not  stretched 

(Blinded  by  wrath)  their  hands  toward  the  stranger, 

To  battle  in  their  broils  —  the  stranger,  then, 

Had  not,  as  now,  become  the  general  spoiler, 

In  justest  retribution !     Watchful  Edward 

Hailed  in  disunion's  hour  his  hour  of  triumph, 

And  to  the  horrors  of  the  home-brewed  storm 

That  lowered  around  the  genius  of  the  North, 

Sent  from  abroad  his  thunders,  to  combine, 

Gather  and  burst,  in  bolts  of  final  ruin. 

So  his  own  Cornwall's  craggy  coast  has  shown 

Yet  harder  hearts  and  rougher  hands,  to  snatch 

E'en  from  the  shipwrecked  prey  of  winds  and  waves 

The  refuse  of  the  elements !     So,  too, 

What  time  the  frighted  Lusian,  forced  to  fly 

From  crash  of  falling  tower,  leaves  all  for  life, 


216  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

The  daring  robber  rushes  to  his  home 

To  rifle  what  the  whelming  earth  had  spared ! 

[Pauses,  then  starts  and  speaks. 

Whence  comes  this  darkling  mist,  that  riseth  round  me 

So  chill  and  ominous  ?  and  —  mighty  powers 

Of  earth  or  air !  what  means  that  shadowy  scaffold, 

And  those  dim  forms  that  fill  it  ?     Spare  them,  Edward ! 

But  for  the  sake  of  thine  own  flesh  and  blood ! 

For  thy  soul's  sake,  be  not  the  slaughtering  Herod 

To  innocents  like  these  !     It  all  disperses. 

Can  this  be  fiendish  juggling,  or,  indeed, 

A  boding  from  on  high  ? 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  ACT, 


THE   WIFE    OF   SEATON,  217 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  1.     An  oratory.     LADY  AGNES  SEATON  kneeling  before  a 
representation  of  the  Blessed   Virgin. 

LADY  AGNES. 

OH  holy  Mary,  hear  and  answer  me ! 

A  miserable  mother,  lo !  I  come 

To  spread  my  griefs  before  thee.     Blessed  One, 

Though  now  thou  art  with  heaven's  beatitude, 

I  call  on  thee  by  the  remembered  pangs 

That  once  were  thine  on  earth ;  by  the  sharp  sorrows 

That  pierced,  as  with  a  sword,  through  thy  own  soul ; 

As  thou  hast  known  a  parent's  deadly  anguish, 

To  feel  for  mine ! 

'Tis  unavailing  all ! 
E'en  prayer  relieves  not. 

(Enter  FRIAR.) 
FEIAR. 

Peace  be  with  you,  daughter ! 

LADY  AGNES. 

0,  father,  mock  me  not  with  words  like  these  ! 
Peace  can  be  mine  no  more. 

54 


218  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

FRIAR. 

The  peace  of  Heaven, 
If  not  of  earth ;  full  rarely  they  agree ; 
And  thus  the  soul  that  compasseth  the  one 
Must  oft  renounce  the  other. 

LADY  AGNES. 

I  have  sought  it ; 

Have  been  imploring  succor  from  on  high ; 
But  Heaven  and  earth  alike  conspire  against  me, 
And  all  is  dark  above  —  below  —  around  1 

FRIAR. 

0,  say  not  thus !  these  clouds  are  earth-engendered. 
'Tis  from  our  saddened  thoughts  the  mists  arise 
And  dim  the  tearful  vision,  intercepting 
The  Light  above,  thence  deemed  to  hide  itself, 
Though  shining  still  forever  and  the  same ; 
E'en  as  the  restless  world  turned  from  the  sun, 
And  when  the  night  succeeded,  lo !  'twas  deemed 
The  sun  had  turned  from  them.     She  heeds  me  not.   (Aside.) 
Lady,  as  is  my  office  and  my  wont, 
I  came  to  solace  and  to  strengthen  thee 
With  words  of  ghostly  comfort ;  but,  I  know  not, 
The  sight  of  thy  sore  suffering  hath  unmanned  me, 
And  what  I  would  I  lack  the  heart  to  utter. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  219 

LADY  AGNES. 

Father,  I  own  and  thank  thy  sympathy. 
All  that  a  mortal  can  to  mortal  lend 
I  know  thou  dost ;  but  never  lot  like  mine 
Called  forth  thy  kindly  services,  for  none 
Was  ever  tried  like  me. 

FRIAR. 

Think,  daughter,  think 
Upon  the  Syrian  of  our  sacred  records, 
The  ancient  patriarch  of  the  chosen  race, 
Called  to  destroy  the  son  in  whom  alone 
That  race  could  be  continued. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Such  a  sacrifice 

Had  never  been  demanded  from  a  mother.* 
The  sire  may  proudly,  fondly  love  his  son; 
(Full  well  I  know  it  by  the  bitter  case 
Of  my  own  gallant,  broken-hearted  Seaton ;) 
But,  to  the  tenderness  of  manlier  natures, 
The  mother  adds,  moreover,  new  affections, 
Whose  height  and  depth  no  being  but  herself 
And  Him  who  gave  them  to  her  comprehendeth. 


*  This  sublime  answer  was  actually  made  to  a  French  monk,  when  urging  a  mother  to  resigna- 
tion by  the  mention  of  Abraham. 


220  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

FRIAR. 

Lady,  I  doubt  it  not. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Then,  think  that  I 

Ain  called  to  speak  the  doom  of —  do  I  live 
To  think  it,  even  ?  —  not  of  one  alone, 
But  both  my  precious  boys ;  my  duteous  ones  ; 
That  I,  their  mother  —  for  it  falls  on  me, 
Since  Seaton's  mind,  torn  with  conflicting  claims, 
Station,  paternity,  and  patriotism, 
(The  rent  sail,  shiv'ring  in  the  shifting  blast,) 
Turns  to  my  own  to  speak  the  words  of  fate. 
Mother,  forsooth !     Ha,  am  I  such,  good  father  ? 
A  fitting  task  for  such  ! 

FRIAR. 

I  pray  thee,  talk  not 
So  very  terribly.     (Not  since  the  burial 
Of  Bruce's  royal  heart  in  Palestine 
Knew  I  as  dark  an  hour.) 

LADY  AGNES. 

I've  heard  the  learned 

Tell  of  that  Colchis  woman  —  one  Medea  — 
Who  killed ! —  dost  shudder,  father  ? — killed  her  children. 
Wouldst  thou  believe  it  ?     If  men  doubt  the  fact, 
Let  them  look  here,  and  gain  the  fell  conviction. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  221 

FRIAR. 

0,  think  not  for  an  instant,  noble  Agnes, 

To  liken  thee  with  her.     She  was  a  sorceress ; 

Fair  incarnation  of  a  fiend  most  foul ; 

Who,  to  the  guilty  flame  that  fired  her  spirit, 

Shamed  not  to  sacrifice  her  sons ;  whilst  thou 

But  yieldest  thine  to  meet  the  sacred  cry 

Thy  country  sends  to  thee.     'Twas  hers  to  loose 

The  vilest  passions  —  thine,  to  bind  the  best. 

LADY  AC5NES. 

But  men  will  note  the  sameness  of  the  fact, 

The  direful  fact,  nor  stay  to  scan  the  motive. 

All  are  not  calm,  like  such  as  we,  good  father, 

To  make  the  due  distinction.     But,  thou  saidst 

(Or  my  dull  sense  deceived)  somewhat  of  country. 

I've  said  the  same  within  my  conscious  soul ; 

But  then  the  tempter  cometh,  to  remonstrate, 

What  doth  a  woman  with  her  country's  weal, 

Whose  world  is  her  own  home,  her  fireside  group, 

Kindred  and  friends?"     And  then  he  whispereth,  "Pride, 

Belike,  unseemly  and  unsexly  pride, 

Misleading  by  the  name  of  heroism, 

Hurls  me  and  mine  to  this  abyss."     Is 't  so  ? 

0,  tell  me,  father ! .  prove  it  be  but  pride, 

And  I  will  bless  thy  name  forevermore ! 


222  FORMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

FRIAR. 

Resist  the  arch  one,  lady.     These  dark  hours 
He  ever  seizes  for  his  own ;  to  conflicts 
Of  flesh  and  blood  still  superadding  those 
Of  wrestling  with  bad  spirits ;  thus  to  crush 
The  overburdened  mortal.     But  for  thee, 
Noble  and  virtuous  dame,  I  have  petitioned, 
And  hope  for  better  things.     The  pride  thus  called 
Were  heathen !  nay,  were  hellish !  like  his  own  ; 
Unlike  the  gentle  and  benignant  bearing 
That,  from  the  innocence  of  infancy 
To  thy  devout  and  gracious  womanhood, 
Hath  still  characterized  thee. 

LADY  AGNES. 

So  I  trusted, 

Till  the  misgivings  of  this  evil  time. 
Surely,  the  lure  of  Fame  could  not  have  led  me ; 
Her  note,  they  say,  is  gladdening  to  the  sense ; 
Not  like  that  stern  and  solemn  voice  of  duty 
That  called  me  —  calls  me  still.     'Tis  near  the  moment 
When  I  must  meet  my  husband.     I  but  asked, 
For  orison  at  this  our  Lady's  shrine, 
And  to  commune  with  you,  my  reverend  father, 
An  hour's  delay.     One  fearful  interview 
With  him  is  past  —  the  next  —  and  all  is  over. 
But  will  it  e'er  be  over  ?    Never,  never ! 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  223 

FRIAK. 

St.  Andrew's  blessing  go  along  with  thee, 
And  guard  thy  high  resolve ! 

[Clock  strikes. 
LADY  AGNES. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  hour!  (Starts  up.) 

These  tremblings  now  ?  (sits.)     Yet,  yet  I  may  not  linger, 
Though  life  or  reason  reel.    I  must  not  leave 
My  lord  in  his  extremity  —  but  who 
Will  be  with  them  in  theirs  ?     0,  horror !  horror ! 

[Clasps  her  hands,  and  rushes  out. 
FRIAE,  (alone.) 

That  task  shall  be  my  care.    I  would  not  hazard 
The  fresh  emotion  to  her  o'erwrought  feelings 
Of  telling  mine  intention,  but  hereafter, 
The  conflict  past,  't  will  prove  to  her  a  solace 
To  know  I  shrived  them  for  then?  last  account ; 
My  sacred  function  will  protect  my  person  ; 
If  not,  my  life  is  vowed  unto  my  Master ; 
To  lose  it  in  his  cause,  the  cause  of  charity, 
Would  be  to  gain  the  crown  of  martyrdom. 

[Exit. 


224  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

SCENE  2.     A  room  in  the  Governor's  /louse,  (with  folding-doors  back 
of  the  scene.)     SEATON  discovered,  to  whom  enters  LADY  AGNES. 

LADY  AGNES. 

My  honored  lord  hath  said,  in  other  times, 
My  presence  brought  him  comfort ;  now,  alas ! 
Agnes  hath  none  to  offer. 

SEATON. 

Say  not  so ; 

Community  is  comfort,  even  in  wretchedness. 
But  of  thy  mind  —  what  of  thy  mind,  my  wife  ? 
My  own 's  unstable  as  the  ebbs  and  flows 
Of  Solway's  current. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Thou  wilt  hate  me,  Seaton, 
When  I  disclose  it. 

SEATON. 

Ha !  sets  the  stream  that  way  ? 
Woman !  canst  thou  ? 

LADY  AGNES. 

Nay,  hearken  to  me  first, 
And  then,  canst  thou  ? 

SEATON. 
Go  on! 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  225 

LADY  AGNES. 

I  bore  those  bairns,  giving  them  life,  thou  know'st, 
With  half  the  loss  of  mine.     (Had  it  but  been  — 
"Would  it  had  been  —  the  whole !)  Parts  of  myself, 
And  nourished  by  myself —  within  mine  arms, 
Or  at  my  bosom  ever,  day  and  night, 
In  health  or  ailment  —  thou  canst  witness  for  me, 
No  weariness  or  watching  e'er  o'erpowered 
My  ministering  vigils. 

SEATON. 

'Tis  most  true, 

My  tried  and  faithful  Agnes !     Oft  I  chid 
Thy  ceaseless  carefulness. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Their  opening  forms 
To  my  rapt  gaze  seemed  infant  deities, 
And  their  first  lispings  fell  upon  my  ear 
Sweeter  than  angel  voices.     (Hold,  my  heart ! 
These  memories  will  melt  me  !     When  I  need 
The  hardness  of  the  rock,  am  I  become 
Like  water  ?) 

SEATON. 

None  can  like  myself  avouch 
What  thou  hast  ever  been  and  done,  my  love  ; 
But  is  not  this  an  argument  to  spare 
The  purchase  of  such  pangs  ? 


226  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

LADY  AGNES. 

I  did  not  mean 

An  idle  vaunt  thus  to  bespeak  thy  praise, 
However  precious.     That  which  then  was  done 
Now  seems  too  little.     They  deserved  it  all, 
The  darlings  —  pshaw !  this  childishness  again  ? 
What  I  had  meant  to  say,  before  this  theme 
Bewitched  me  with  its  fond  remembrances, 
Was,  that  if  I,  a  mother,  (and,  thou  own'st, 
A  kindly  one,)  give  up  my  being's  right 
In  theirs,  't  is  surely  no  impeachment,  then, 
Of  thy  paternal  tenderness,  that  thou 
Should  set  the  seal  upon  the  sacrifice. 

SEATON. 

The  sacrifice !  and  dost  thou  know  its  worst  ? 
Not  death  alone ;  but  such  a  death,  my  Agnes ! 
The  place,  the  mode  —  the  gibbet  and  the  cord ! 
The  felon's  fate !    Agnes,  't  were  double  death 
To  die  thus  vilely. 

LADY  AGNES. 

The  like  fate  attended 

Our  peerless  Wallace.    What  he  bore  unblemished 
Can  ne'er  disparage  those  who  after  him 
Tread  the  same  path  to  heaven. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  227 

SEAT  ON. 

Alas !  alas ! 

LADY  AGNES. 

Thou  needs  not  put  it  to  thy  loyalty. 

Thou  hast  a  king,  though  young,  and  far  away, 

Son  of  the  Bruce,  (and  destined,  as  we  trust, 

To  prove  his  lineage  by  his  future  deeds,) 

For  whom  his  faithful  subjects  all  are  bound 

To  keep  his  royal  heritage  unspoiled ; 

Nor  yet  to  urge  upon  thy  patriot  heart 

The  sacred  claim  of  country  to  be  held 

Back  from  th'  invader's  grasp  ;  still  less  to  cite 

(All  which  thou  know'st  far  better  than  myself) 

What  I  have  gathered  from  the  wise  discoursing  — 

Of  those,  that  chronicles  of  old  attest, 

To  aid  the  fortunes  of  the  failing  state 

Gave  up  themselves  and  theirs.     Our  later  days 

Showed  as  good  samples,  where  a  single  household 

Sufficed  to  turn  the  adverse  tide  of  war. 

SEATON. 

No,  I  forget  them  not.     Thou  mean'st  the  Hayes. 


228  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Yes,  those  three  men  —  of  humble  station,  then, 
Though  since  assigned,  as  meed  for  their  exploit, 
Rank  with  the  highest  —  those  three  husbandmen, 
Father  and  sons,  who,  laboring  on  the  glebe, 
Rushed  with  their  rustic  implements  of  toil, 
The  spade,  the  harrow,  whatso'er  they  held, 
To  stop  the  flight  of  their  retreating  countrymen  — 
Driving  them  back  upon  the  enemy, 
Thence  to  return  as  conquerors ! 

SEATON. 

They  deserved 

The  fame  that  followed  them,  and  I  will  own 
Such  fame  were  dear ;  yet  are  my  sons  far  dearer. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Think  not  the  loss  of  that  alone  I  heed, 

Though  that  were  much ;  the  burning  brand  of  infamy 

Might  yet  be  quenched,  by  others  or  ourselves  j 

Not  so  the  inward,  inextinguished  fire, 

Still  scorching,  ne'er  consuming.     Voice  of  man, 

Without  us,  may  capriciously  award 

Its  censure  or  acclaim,  and  we  contemn  it ; 

But  of  man's  Maker,  in  us,  who  shall  scorn  ? 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  229 

SEAT  ON. 

I  own  its  hallowed  sanction  to  thy  pleadings. 

LADY  AGXES. 

Besides,  if  thou  desert  thy  trust,  and  thus 
Betray  the  sons  of  all  the  sires  in  Scotland 
To  save  thine  own,  blotting  the  fair  escutcheon 
Worn  by  thine  ancestry  unsoiled  till  now ;  — 
Bethink  thee,  after  all,  if  thou  be  sure 
To  gain  the  guerdon  ?  to  deliver  those 
For  whom  all  else  were  forfeited  ?     Not  so ! 
For  if,  in  mockery  of  the  faith  of  treaties, 
Of  his  own  covenant,  the  tyrant  now 
Has  broke  his  oath  —  who  knows  but  then  he  fail 
To  spare  the  captives,  and  thou  sow'st  the  wind 
Only  to  reap  the  whirlwind ! 

SEATON. 

Hold,  in  mercy ! 

LADY  AGNES. 

Think,  too,  my  Seaton,  we  have  other  children. 

SEATON. 

None  other  half  so  dear. 


230  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

LADY  AGNES. 

None  dearer,  sure.     The  absent  and  the  dead 
Are  ever  most  delighted  in  —  and  justly. 
The  heart  must  seek  to  compensate  itself, 
When  past  the  power  to  pour  it  forth  in  act, 
By  hoarding  larger  measures  of  affection. 
So  let  it  be  with  them  ! 

SEATON. 

Thy  solemn  words 
Fall  like  a  requiem !     Hast  thou  more  to  move  me  ? 

LADY  AGNES. 

Nought  of  my  own ;  but,  could  I  summon  others, 
There  are,  whose  words  to  second  my  appeal, 
Were  more  prevailing. 

SEATON. 

Who  could  be  thus  gifted  ? 
Say,  who  ? 

LADY  AGNES. 

The  lads  themselves ! 

Start  not !  'tis  true !     Stood  they  before  us  now, 
Themselves  to  hold  the  balance,  and  their  doom 
The  weight  depending,  confident  I  am 
Allan  and  Duncan  are  no  sons  of  ours 
But  they  would  beg  thee  not  to  spare  their  lives 


THE  WIFE   OP   SEATON.  231 

At  peril  of  their  honor ;  would  prefer 

To  die,  the  offspring  of  an  honest  man, 

Than  live  a  traitor's  heirs !     And  dost  thou  shrink 

At  the  mere  name  ?     Think  of  the  thing,  my  Seaton ! 

And  let  it  nerve  thee  to  the  only  course 

By  which  thou  canst  avoid  it. 

SEATON. 

Thou  hast  won  me ; 

Hast  conquered,  Agnes !    Thou  hast  gained  thy  husband^ 
But  lost  thy  sons  ! 

[Falls  on  her  neck,  when,  suddenly  catching  a  glance 
at  the  side  scene,  she  screams  and  sinks  back. 

What  means  that  fearful  shriek  ? 

LADY  AGNES. 

A  sudden  pang.     Within,  (pointing  to  the  folding-doors.} 

Send  Margaret  hither. 
I  shall  be  better  soon,  and  come  to  thee. 

[SEATON  goes  into  the  inner  room. 

(Enter  MARGARET.) 

[LADY  AGNES,  starting  up,  snatches  the  hand  of  MARGARET,  and  points  with  it  to 
the  view  through  the  side  scene. 

LADY  AGNES. 

'T  is  there,  already.     Look !  the  fatal  tree ! 
Beneath  our  walls  —  within  our  very  sight ! 
I  sped  my  husband  hence,  ere  he  beheld 
What  might  have  blunted  all  his  resolution. 


232  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

X 

Barbarian  Edward !  could  thy  savage  heart 
Contrive  this  aggravation  ?     Curses  on  thee ! 
On  thee  and  thine.     Take,  ruthless  spoiler,  take 
A  mother's  malison.     0,  may  it  reach  thee  ! 
Follow  through  life  and  haunt  thee  at  thy  death ! 
And  let  it  cleave  the  tomb,  and  pierce  beneath, 
Keen  as  a  falchion,  till  it  find  the  hell 
To  which  thy  crimes  shall  sink  thee,  and  dire  Heaven 
Deaf  to  thy  cries,  as  thou  wert  deaf  to  mine ! 

[Falls  exhausted  into  the  arms  of  MARGARET.     Curtain  drops. 


END  OF  THE  TH1KD  ACT. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  233 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  1.     The  grounds  belonging  to  the  Governor's  house.     LADY 
AGNES,  disordered.     MARGARET  fottoiving. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Follow  me  not ;  I  go  to  seek  my  sons. 
Dost  hear  me,  girl  ?     Let  go  my  hand !     My  sons 
Are  in  the  camp  ;  no  place  for  such  as  thee. 
My  errand  is  a  lone  one. 

MARGARET. 

Dearest  lady, 
Drive  me  not  from  you ! 

LADY   AGNES. 

Fie  on't !  Margaret. 

Wouldst  have  me  trust  a  decent  Scottish  lassie 
With  Edward's  lawless  soldiery  ?     Thy  mistress 
Is  bound  to  better  care  of  thee,  poor  Margaret. 
Wait  thou  until  thy  maiden  snood  be  doffed 
For  matron  coif.     Even  such  as  I,  myself, 
May  shudder  at  the  enterprise ;  these  English 
Have  grown  so  pitiless !     Thou  canst  not  know 
How  pitiless  —  nor  will  they  let  me  tell  thee  — 
The  leech  forbade  it ;  did  he  not  ? 


234  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

MARGARET. 

Yes,  lady ; 
He  bade  me  keep  you  quieted. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Most  truly. 

Well,  we  must  do  his  bidding.     I'll  but  whisper  — 
These  English  are  so  fell  they  neither  spare 
Mother  nor  children.     Children !  that  reminds  me 
My  own  are  waiting  me  in  yonder  camp, 
While  I  am  loit'ring  here ;  my  brightreyed  Allan 
And  my  dark  Duncan.     Ha !  in  yonder  camp  ? 
What  do  they  there  ?    Art  tampering  with  the  foe  ? 
I  tell  thee,  Margaret,  if  the  lads  are  traitors 
Then  they  are  none  of  mine.     'Tis  some  mistake ! 
Mine  were  true  men. 

MARGARET. 

The  Friar  will  soon  return, 
And  tell  us,  lady,  all  concerning  them. 
(Aside.)     (I  am  content  her  wanderings  take  this  turn ; 
It  may  beguile  her  to  repose  awhile, 
Which  she  so  greatly  needs  for  restoration 
To  wonted  sanity.)     The  pious  father 
Will  shortly  bring  us  tidings  from  the  camp, 
Upon  whose  word  we  know  you  can  rely. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATOK  235 

LADY  AGNES. 

Truly,  so  can  I ;  thou  sayest  well,  my  Margaret 
No  more  discreet  an  handmaid  can  attend 
On  any  dame.     'T  is  fittest  we  await 
The  Friar's  return,  to  ascertain  this  matter, 
Ere  we  depart  on  an  uncertain  quest. 
Meantime,  let  me  betake  me  to  my  couch, 
And  tell  my  beads.     Lend  me  thy  arm,  my  girl. 


SCENE  2.     The  armory  of  the  castle.    D  UNBAR  and  the  FRIAB 
conversing. 

FEIAE. 

I  did  fear  me  this. 

DUNBAR. 

Yes,  she  sustained  the  task  appointed  her 

Unfaltering  to  the  end ;  but,  that  accomplished, 

The  copious  tide  of  nature,  long  pent  up, 

Burst  forth  at  once,  and  overwhelmed  the  reason. 

Like  as,  when  pierced  to  death,  the  dauntless  Theban 

Kept  in  the  javelin  till  the  day  was  won  — 

Then  life  gushed  with  it ! 


236  POEMS    AND   MISCELLANIES. 

FEIAK. 

Thus  it  ever  is. 

Ah,  that  it  should  be  thus  with  poor  mortality, 
Even  at  the  highest !     The  weak  frame  gives  way, 
Though  the  firm  purpose  fail  not ;  but  hereafter 
The  spirits  of  the  saints,  we  may  believe, 
(Freed  from  a  world  scarce  worthy  of  their  stay,) 
Shall  gam  befitting  forms,  with  a  duration 
Eternal,  as  the  souls  inspiring  them. 

DUNBAR, 

Our  Lady  grant  it. 

FRIAE. 

Yes,  the  shrinking  nerve. 
Not  then,  as  now,  perchance,  shall  counteract 
"  Th'  unconquerable  will ; "  that  the  strong  man, 
Armed  at  all  points  against  a  foreign  foe, 
Shah1  start  aghast  to  see  himself  subdued 
By  his  own  flesh  and  blood !  the  pilgrim  faints 
Beneath  the  penance  he  must  yet  perform 
At  peril  of  his  soul,  and  the  rough  soldier  — 

DUNBAR. 

Aye,  father,  has  thy  moralizing  creed 
A  saving  plea  for  cowards  ?  for,  if  so, 
Son  of  the  church,  and  duteous  as  I  may  be, 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  237 

I  hardly  shall  respond  to  it ;  the  less 

At  such  a  time  of  need  for  dauntless  hearts 

In  our  beleaguered  realm. 

FRIAR. 

I  had  foreseen 

Thy  soldierly  protest,  heroic  Dunbar, 
Nor  would  it  suit,  in  this  emergency, 
To  preach  such  doctrine  to  the  famished  troops 
Of  either  garrison  —  thy  castle's  charge, 
Or  hapless  Seaton's  —  but,  in  calmer  moments, 
I  ask  it  of  the  conscience  of  that  chieftain 
Who  ever  closely  communed  with  himself 
Whether  he  have  not  found  a  subtle  something 
That  strove  to  curb  his  mettle,  and  anon 
Cried  "  craven  "  to  his  prowess  ?  that,  repressed, 
Returned  with  powers  repaired,  e'en  as  the  reptile, 
Though  once  dissevered,  rallies  yet  again 
With  fangs  renewed  ?  or  rather,  like  the  fiend, 
(If  such  may  now  be  suffered  to  possess  us, 
As  sacred  records  teach  they  did  of  old,) 
Who,  once  expelled,  came  back  with  seven-fold  powers 
Confederate  with  himself,  to  wreak  his  will  ? 


238  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

DUNBAB. 

I  bow  me  to  thy  holy  record,  father, 
Howe'er,  as  commandment  of  Berwick  castle, 
Strenuous  to  disallow  the  application 
That  shelters  timorous  natures ;  all  too  many 
Of  such  our  bastion  doth  enclose  already, 
Fled  here,  perforce,  for  safety  from  the  foe. 
The  anxious  matron  and  the  trembling  maid ; 
The  worn-out  veteran,  whose  encumb'ring  limb 
(As  if  in  mockery  of  its  former  strength) 
Hangs  withered  now —  a  dead  and  useless  weight ; 
And  the  poor  child,  whose  utmost  stretch  of  height 
Scarce  gains  his  grandsire's  knee ;  whose  height  of  hope 
Already  reaches  what  his  grandsire  was ! 
But  the  effective  force  that  guardeth  these 
Is  all  too  small,  in  view  of  Edward's  numbers, 
To  need  enfeebling  dogmas ;  yet  I  grant 
There's  weight  within  your  words ;  and  these  wars  over, 
When  I  have  leisure  to  look  o'er  my  conscience, 
If  the  survey  disclose  to  me  such  lurkers 
As  those  whose  ambush  you  so  well  denote, 
Lowly  at  thy  confessional,  good  father, 
Will  I  my  breast  unbare  till  thou  absolve  me. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  239 

FRIAR. 

Tis  frankly  said,  and  I  accept  the  pledge 

Freely  as  given.     Meanwhile,  mistake  me  not. 

Neither  the  frost  of  age,  nor  cloister's  chill, 

Hath  frozen  yet  the  blood  within  these  veins 

That  once  hath  burned  upon  the  battle-field, 

Alas  !  too  hotly !     But  the  helm  and  corslet 

Possessed  the  man  before  the  cowl  and  gown. 

My  breath,  while  lent,  shall  fan,  and  not  extinguish 

The  fire  of  action ;  but,  that  action  done, 

Should  strive  to  temper  the  delirious  pulse 

Of  human  exultation,  in  the  hour 

Of  its  wild  triumph,  by  recalling,  then, 

The  conscious  thought  to  tranquilize  its  throbs ; 

And  silently  impart  that  touch  of  humbleness 

That  lends  a  grace  to  honor. 

(Enter  ATTENDANT.) 
ATTENDANT. 

Reverend  father, 

The  Lady  Agnes  Seaton,  so  far  healed, 
The  saints  be  praised  !  of  her  late  malady, 
Took  note  of  thy  return,  directing  me 
To  crave  thy  presence. 


240  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

FRIAR. 

Bear  my  blessing  to  her, 
And  tell  the  noble  lady  she  confirmeth 
My  previous  purpose  of  a  conference 
Soon  as  her  strength  allowed. 

[Exit  ATTENDANT. 

(To  DUNDAR.) 

I  have  good  hope 

That  my  narration  of  the  constancy 
With  which  her  youthful  martyrs  met  their  fate, 
How  sad  soe'er,  may  yet  be  salutary 
To  the  condition  of  the  noble  mourner ; 
Healing  the  broken  heart-strings  that  had  snapped 
From  over  tension. 

DUNBAR. 

Sights  like  these,  good  father, 
Have  lessened  my  repining  at  my  portion, 
When  —  as  a  lonely  man,  beholding  none 
My  name  may  rest  upon  when  I  resign  it  — 
Tempted  to  discontent,  in  those  brief  hours 
A  soldier  steals  from  warfare. 

FRIAR. 

Yes,  my  son, 

Though  selfish  be  the  thought,  and  subject  after 
For  mortifying  penance,  I  have  found, 
In  my  own  case,  the  sworn  celibacy 


THE  WIFE   OF   SEATON.  241 

Enjoined  our  sect  a  rule  less  burdensome, 
When  called  to  witness  those  domestic  sorrows 
My  duty  bids  me  comfort. 

DUNBAR. 

Even  so. 

And  I  as  well  may  magnify  my  lot, 
Lauding  it  as  the  choice  of  knights  and  saints, 
Pilgrim  and  priest ;  and  if,  at  times,  the  thought 
Still  prick  me  like  a  thorn  within  the  flesh, 
That  in  reserve  no  progeny  of  prattlers 
Shall  cheer  my  dotage  —  'tis  a  far-off  day ! 
And,  thanks  to  Edward  and  his  minion  Baliol, 
Few  of  us  may  be  left  to  fill  the  seats 
Of  reverend  eldership. 

FRIAR. 

Till  when,  and  ever, 
In  all  conditions,  lenedwtte  ! 

{Exit. 

(Enter  SEATON.) 
SEATON. 

My  worthy  Dunbar  will  not  think  it  strange 
If  late  his  comrade,  borne  down  with  the  weight 
Of  individual  burden,  lacked  the  power 
To  hold  discourse  upon  the  common  interest. 


242  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

DUNBAR. 

That  common  interest  who  so  well  had  cared  for 
As  thy  much-injured  self,  my  suffering  friend  ? 

SEATON. 

But  now  I  would  be  aided  by  thy  judgment. 
What  saith  it  to  this  aspect  of  affairs  ? 

DUNBAR. 

That  they  have  reached  their  crisis ;  or,  at  least* 

Inevitably  must,  in  no  long  time. 

The  mighty  forces  mustered  by  the  foe 

On  sea  and  land,  when  brought  to  bear  at  once 

Upon  our  wasted  town  and  shattered  fortress, 

Must  prove  resistless ;  neither  can  I  gather 

(More  than  yourself,  I  think,)  much  hope  from  Douglas. 

SEATON. 

Grant  Heaven  his  coming  be  not  ominous 
To  all,  as  to  myself !  its  doleful  consequences 
To  me  and  mine  may  cloud,  perchance,  my  judgment. 

DUNBAR. 

No.    It  has  proved,  as  yet,  disastrous  merely  ; 
Provoked  his  foes,  and  done  his  friends  no  good. 


THE    WIFE   OF   SEATON.  243 

SEATON. 

And  yet,  one  should  not  willingly  prejudge 
A  great  and  gallant  name ;  but,  in  the  case 
Of  Archibald  Douglas,  will  it  be  dispraise 
To  own  that  I  distrust  his  very  virtues, 
Deeming  him  over  brave  ?  a  quality, 
(I  need  not  say,)  in  circumstance  like  ours, 
Worse  than  its  abject  opposite. 

DUNBAR. 

To  this 

Add,  that  albeit  he  love  his  country  much, 
He  hates  his  enemy  yet  more ;  which,  paired 
With  that  false  shame  lest  he  be  deemed  inert, 
(Our  reverend  Friar  would  call  a  snare,)  may  tempt  him 
To  peril  all,  and  risk  a  general  battle. 

SEATON. 

And  lose  it,  Dunbar !     Yes,  my  soul  forebodes 
Such  for  the  issue.     After  all  our  struggles, 
Is  such  the  stern  decree  ?     And  Bruce  has  warred 
And  Wallace  died  for  this,  and  this  alone ! 
Is  all  in  vain,  and  Scotland  doomed  to  follow 
In  the  long  funeral  of  departed  nations 
Whose  being  ended  ere  her  own  began? 


244  "     POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

DUNBAK. 

No,  no !  believe  it  not ! 

SEATON. 

Or,  if  forbade 

By  policy  —  not  pity  —  to  be  struck 
From  off  the  roll  of  states,  is  she  reserved 
The  more  degraded  lot  to  hold  existence 
The  feudatory  servitor  of  England, 
And  the  rapacious  and  remorseless  wretch 
That  sways  her  sceptre  ? 

DUNBAR. 

Neither  fate,  I  trust, 

Awaits  our  country.     The  foe  may  enter, 
But  can  he  keep  its  borders  ?    Will  fair  Tweed 
E'er  settle  to  a  tributary  stream  ? 
Or  Cheviot  long  look  down  on  any  lord 
Save  one  of  Scotland's  rearing  ?    No,  my  friend. 
The  native  heather,  that  bent  awhile 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  a  foreign  tread, 
Shall  wave  as  free  as  ever.     Though  the  soldier 
Is  not  to  play  the  seer,  yet  may  he  judge 
The  future  from  the  past ;  from  what  has  been 
Gather  what  is  to  be.     And  if  "  the  days 


THE  WIFE  OF   SEATON.  245 

Of  open  vision  "  have  not  dawned  on  me, 
As  on  Donaldus,  yet,  from  boyhood's  hour, 
I  ne'er  beheld  our  mountain  cataract, 
In  giant-leap  from  heights  the  eagle  knew  not 
To  depths  past  human  ken  —  our  island  surge, 
Still  roaring  to  the  deafened  Hebrides  — 
But  that  my  spirit  sprang,  as  if  their  bold 
Unearthly  voice  had  sworn  to  us  a  freedom 
Wild  as  their  own. 

SEATON. 

Would  I  might  share  thy  faith ! 
Ah,  Dunbar !  't  is  the  cheerful  character 
Of  thy  own  mind  that  ever  coloreth  thus 
The  scenery  it  surveyed.    My  darkened  spirit 
From  the  same  sounds  would  catch  the  groans  of  bondage 
Or  the  sharp  death-cry !    Bear  with  me,  my  friend, 
As  the  survivor  of  a  recent  wreck, 
The  raving  tempest  clamorous  in  his  ears 
When  calmed  to  all  beside. 

DUNBAR. 

Doth  Berwick  own 

A  heart  that  would  not  "bear"  and  bleed  with  his 
Whose  own  has  thus  been  wrung  ? 

61 


246  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

SEATON. 

For  thine,  at  least, 

I  ask  no  guarantee.     Now  let's  away. 
I  must  have  sight  of  Agnes. 

DUNBAR. 

And  I  follow. 


[Exit. 


SCENE  3.     The  apartment  of  LADY  AGNES  SEATON.     Herself 
the  FRIAR  in  conversation. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Now,  holy  father,  blessings  on  thy  head, 
Here  and  hereafter,  for  that  charity ! 

FRIAR. 

In  aught  to  comfort  thee  hath  more  than  paid  me. 

LADY  AGNES. 

I  did  not  think  ever  to  weep  again, 
But  thou  hast  touched  the  spring  within  the  rock, 
And  healing  waters  flow. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  247 

(Enter  DUNBAR  and  SEATON.) 
SEATON. 

How  fares  my  Agnes  ? 
How  is  it  with  thee  now  ? 

LADY  AGNES. 

Better,  my  lord ; 

And  not  unmindful  of  the  kind  solicitude 
That  prompts  the  asking. 

SEATON. 

I  could  not  rely 

On  the  reports  they  of  the  household  brought, 
But  stole  a  moment  from  the  cares  of  office, 
(Though  at  the  heaviest  now,)  to  satisfy  me. 

DUNBAB. 

I,  too,  a  respite  snatch  from  the  like  duties, 
To  hail  my  precious  cousin's  restoration ; 
And,  in  the  name  of  Berwick  and  of  Scotland, 
To  thank  that  pair  to  whom  all  thanks  are  due. 

SEATON. 

Pay  them  to  her.     None  to  myself  are  owing. 
To  Agnes,  only,  doth  that  debt  belong. 


248  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

LADY  AGNES. 

(To  SEATON.)  Nay,  prithee,  nay!   (to  DUNBAR)   and  if  it 

[were  so,  kinsman, 

Thou  know'st  it  chanceth  for  the  fragile  skiff 
Sometimes  to  bear  itself  above  the  waves 
From  very  lightness  —  when  the  braver  bark, 
Borne  down  by  its  rich  freight  and  pressed  with  sail, 
Had  well-nigh  parted. 

DUNBAR. 

Such  lowly  estimate  of  thy  own  merits 

Does  but  enhance  the  worth  it  seeks  to  lower. 

LADY  AGNES. 

Forbear !  my  friend,  thy  plaudits  overpower  me. 
Even  with  the  duty  done,  so  highly  rated, 
Mingled  enough  to  shame  the  sense  of  pride ! 
A  dark  and  stormy  interval  has  left 
Its  clouds  between  me  and  my  memory, 
Spreading  o'er  much  a  dreamy  indistinctness ; 
Yet  I  recall  —  albeit  confusedly  — 
I  do  remember,  in  my  agony, 
(That  cast  me,  as  a  prey,  to  frantic  impulse,) 
Venting  strange  words  of  fearful  imprecation. 


THE  WIFE   OF   SEATON.  249 

I  would  they  were  unsaid !     'Tis  not  for  me, 
0,  not  for  me,  a  weak  and  tempted  woman, 
(Daughter  of  dust,  which  every  breath  is  bearing 
Back  to  its  source,)  to  teach  the  steadfast  Heavens 
Where  to  direct  their  thunders  !     0,  forbid  it ! 
If,  in  my  frenzy,  I  have  cursed  King  Edward, 
I  do  revoke  — 

(DON ALDUS,  entering,  speaks.) 
DONALDUS. 

In  vain !  'tis  registered ! 
Eternal  retribution  is  concerned 
It  should  be  so,  howe'er  thy  generous  nature 
Eelenteth  thus  toward  so  fell  a  foe. 
The  righteous  wrath  of  man  hath  sometimes  proved 
Prompting  of  Providence ;  the  cry  of  anguish 
Forced  from  the  tortured  spirit  (like  the  groan 
Wrung  from  the  writhing  martyr  on  the  rack) 
Is  heard  of  Heaven ;  aye,  heard  and  answered,  too ! 
Thy  curse  shall  fasten,  yet,  on  him  and  his, 
Sharp  as  the  eagle's  talons  !  and  I  go 

To  warn  him  of  it. 

[Exit  DONALDUS. 

62 


250  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

SEATON. 

Did  I  hear  aright  ? 

And  dares  he  front  that  merciless  destroyer 
In  his  own  place  ? 

DUNBAB. 

Donaldus  is  not  one 

To  fear  the  face  of  man  —  of  guilty  man 
The  least  of  any  —  since  to  such  his  tidings 
Of  solemn  import  may  be  most  effectual 
To  probe  past  crimes,  or  to  preserve  from  future. 
But  time  has  sped,  and  I  must  leave  you,  cousin, 
And  seek  a  ruder  presence. 

SEATON. 

True,  my  Agnes ; 

Yes,  our  short  furlough  has  expired  already. 
I  do  commend  thee  to  thy  own  best  caution, 
And  leave  thee,  dearest,  to  the  care  of  Heaven, 
And  this,  its  holy  minister. 

FRIAR. 

Her  comfort, 

My  son,  shall  be  my  care.    The  saints  direct  you, 
(To  S.  and  D.)  Giving  to  each  good  fortune,  or  the  grace 
That  draws  the  sting  from  bad ! 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  251 

LADY  AGNES. 

Amen ;  so  be  it ! 
Husband  and  kinsman,  all  good  go  with  you ! 

[Exit  SEATON  and  DUNBAR. 
FRIAR. 

Daughter,  thine  ancient  harper  had  produced 

His  wonted  tribute  of  a  brief  lament 

To  suit  thy  circumstance ;  but  did  reserve  it 

Until  the  season  of  bewilderment 

Had  passed  away,  and  left  thee  to  thyself. 

But  now,  wilt  please  thee  listen  to  his  lay, 

Whene'er  the  mood  shall  favor  ? 

LADY  AGNES. 

It  will  soothe  me, 

To  hear  the  strain  whose  burden  is  to  be 
Of  what  I  loved  and  lost.     Within  the  oratory 
We  wiU  await  it.  ysxitMk. 

{Scene  changes  to  the  oratory.    LADY  AGNES,  FRIAR,  HARPER.) 
LADY  AGNES. 

(To  HARPER.)  Mine  ancient  follower,  I  am  now  prepared 

To  lend  the  funeral  chant  thy  zeal  hath  ofiered 

A  renovated  ear.     The  holy  father 

Made  known  to  me  this  proof  of  fealty, 

My  good  old  Gildus !  that  my  heart  has  answered, 

And  thanks  thee,  for  the  living  —  and  the  dead ! 


252  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

HARPEE. 

My  noble  mistress  will  permit  the  purpose 

To  hide  the  faultiness  of  the  performance. 

For  the  poor  minstrel  felt  his  wonted  fires 

Quenched  by  his  tears.     The  broken  voice  of  age 

Hath  little  melody  at  best  —  but  less 

When  grief  would  choke  its  utterance.     Yet  the  strains, 

Such  as  they  are,  shall  wake  them  at  thy  bidding. 

(Sings,  accompanied  by  the  harp.    During  the  strain  LADY  AGNES  covers  her  face 
with  her  hand. 

They  are  gone ;  they  are  gone  from  the  hearth  and  the  home ; 
To  the  hall  of  their  fathers  no  more  can  they  come  ; 
In  the  bloom  of  their  youth,  in  the  light  of  their  prime, 
Ere  the  tempests  of  life  or  the  shadows  of  tune, 

They  are  gone ! 

No  more  shall  the  hind  hear  their  call  at  the  morn, 
Nor  the  stag  start,  when  echo  their  bugle  hath  borne  ; 
Not  again  wave  the  plumes  that  in  battle  they  wore, 
Nor  then-  arm  bears  the  banner  their  forefathers  bore. 

No  more,  no  more ! 

Yet  their  names  shall  be  lofty  as  Scotia's  high  pine, 
Live  as  long  as  the  oak,  and  as  green  as  the  vine ; 
In  their  lives  they  were  lovely,  nor  death  would  dissever  — 
Not  divided,  as  wont,  but  united  them  ever ! 

Forever ! 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  253 

{The  FRIAR  now  rises  and  Joins  the  chant  of  the  HARPER.) 

By  all  the  blood  the  martyrs  shed, 
By  relics  of  the  sainted  dead, 
By  pilgrim's  penitential  tear, 
By  knighthood's  consecrated  bier, 
Be  their  frailties  here  forgiven ! 
Let  their  spirits  rest  in  heaven  ! 

[  Curtain  falls. 


EXD  OF  THE  FOURTH  ACT. 


254  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  1.     The  English  camp  before  Berwick.    A  distant  vieiv 

of  the  town,  castle,  river,  ivith  its  vessels  of  ivar,  &c. 

Tent  of  EDWARD  III. 

(Enter  DOXALDUS,  advancing,  and  speaks.) 
DONALDUS. 

Why  ever  thus,  when  called  to  exercise 
My  awful  function,  feel  I  such  reluctance  ? 
The  dread  decrees  I  utter  are  not  mine, 
And  I  believe  them  fully  merited 
And  equitably  ordered.     Spite  of  this, 
The  weakness  lingers  still.     Would  that  the  prophet 
Had  mastered  more  the  man  !     A  Voice,  they  call  me ; 
Would  I  were  but  a  voice !     I  should  not  then  — 
Appointed  to  confront  this  throned  transgressor 
Just  reeking  from  the  gory  spectacle 
To  angels  and  to  men  his  wrath  had  raised  — 
•  Be  conscious  to  aught  other  than  his  crimes, 
Nor  reck  their  threatened  penal  expiation. 
Yes,  let  me  think  on  the  unnumbered  wrongs 
His  mad  career  of  conquest  hath  inflicted 


THE  WIFE   OF   SEATON.  255 

Already  on  the  land  —  the  many  more 
He  meditates  —  till  it  shall  rouse  to  rage 
The  spirit  of  the  North,  and  raise  within  me 
All  the  avenger. 

\_Goes  to  the  entrance  of  the  tent. 

Edward  of  England ! 

EDWARD. 

Who  art  thou,  bold  one  ? 

DONALDUS.    ' 

Edward  of  England ! 

EDWARD. 

Ha !  what  rash  intruder 
Invades  our  presence  thus  ?    Where  are  my  guards  ? 

DONALDUS. 

Thy  guards  are  vigilant ;  but  they  shrank  back 
When  they  regarded  me. 

(NEVILLE  enters  to  them  and  speaks.) 
NEVILLE. 

My  liege,  'tis  he ; 
That  awful  One  I  spake  of.  (To  the  king.} 

EDWARD. 

In  Heaven's  name ! 
What  art  thou,  man  ? 


256  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

DONALDUS. 

I  am  the  voice  of  one 

To  thee,  0  king,  sent  from  the  King  of  kings, 
To  speak  thy  doom.     And  I,  too,  am  a  monarch, 
And  wield  a  sceptre ;  though  no  outward  ensigns 
Blazon  it  forth.     The  Future  is  my  kingdom ! 
I  stretch  my  sceptre  o'er  its  darkling  realm, 
Which  none  can  wrest  from  me ;  the  arm  that  seeks  it 
Must  borrow  weapons  from  archangel's  armory  • — 
Michael,  or  Gabriel ! 

EDWARD. 

To  the  proof,  vain  boaster ! 
I  dare  the  utmost  that  the  Prince  of  Darkness 
Speaks  by  that  lying  tongue. 

DONALDUS. 

Blasphemer!  pause; 

'Tis  truth,  as  sure  as  thine  adulterous  mother 
Murdered  thy  recreant  father ! 

EDWARD. 
Seize  the  caitiff!  (To  guards.) 

DONALDUS. 

They  dare  not  —  cannot !     This  is  not  my  hour. 
Its  features  have  been  shown  me  with  the  rest, 
That  when  it  comes  I  know,  and  bid  it  welcome. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  257 

• 

EDWARD. 

Better  it  had  come  ere  now  —  nay,  better  yet, 
That  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born,  than  live  to  slander 
The  head  of  England's  chivalry. 

DONALDUS. 

I  meant, 

As  him  on  whom  the  prophet  stole  had  fallen, 
But  to  deliver  that  I  have  received 
To  thee,  0  king,  with  prophet  passiveness. 
But,  as  one  born  of  Caledonian  blood, 
Can  I  stand  face  to  face  with  thee,  thou  spoiler, 
Nor  feel  it  boiling  to  be  cooled  in  thine  ? 
But  thou  art  spared  to  be  the  scorpion  scourge 
Of  neighboring  nations  round,  till  come  the  end ; 
When,  like  that  ruthless  reptile  thou  resemblest, 
Thy  sting  shall  turn,  at  last,  against  thyself. 

EDWARD. 

Now,  by  St.  George  and  Christendom's  seven  champions ! 
Half  of  thy  prophecy  contents  me  well ; 
What  warrior  but  must  wish  to  prove  a  scourge 
Unto  his  enemies  ?     Thine  other  augury, 
Sir  Soothsayer,  we'll  withhold  our  credence  from 
Till  some  more  special  revelation  force  it. 

DONALDUS. 

Sir  King,  but  late  thou  didst  command  me  dumb ; 

Now,  wouldst  hear  on,  though  hearing  should  appall  thee. 


258  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

(Fixed,  like  the  bird,  by  fatal  fascination.) 
Know,  then  —  and  this  shall  be  to  thee  a  sign  — 
Thy  son,  thy  first-born  and  thy  best  beloved, 
In  war  thy  buckler,  and  in  peace  thy  star, 
Shall  die  before  thine  eyes !     Nor  in  the  field, 
Girt  by  his  glittering  host,  and  cheered  to  conquest ; 
(As  sets  the  sun  upon  the  Solway's  bed, 
With  rays  of  glory  round ;)  the  sable  prince, 
Like  fiery  comet,  whose  portentous  train 
Still  terminates  in  gloom  —  shall  meet  his  fate. 
Low  on  th'  ignoble  couch,  no  more  to  rise, 
'Mid  countless  pangs,  and  every  pang  a  deathj 
Yet  death  delaying  —  heart-wrung,  drop  by  drop, 
Shall  Edward  and  Phillippa's  boast  depart ! 
Yet  for  her  sake,  erewhile  thy  better  angel, 
Whose  interposing  pity  saved  from  death 
The  burghers  of  Calais,*  (and,  present  here, 
Had  surely  saved  those  unoffending  striplings!) 
For  this  the  vials  of  the  wrath  to  come 
Shall  not  be  all  poured  out  upon  thy  person, 
But  part  on  thy  posterity.     Yet,  know 


*  I  am  aware  that  the  conquest  of  Calais  did  not  occur  till  twelve  or  fifteen  years  after  the 
date  of  this  piece,  at  the  invasion  of  Scotland  by  Edward  III. ;  but  the  temptation  to  commemo- 
rate an  illustrious  woman,  to  whom  literature  no  less  than  humanity  is  so  much  indebted,  (the 
foundress  of  Queen's  College,  and  the  patroness  of  Chaucer,)  prevailed  with  me  to  hazard  the 
anachronism ;  which,  however,  is  hardly  such  in  the  mouth  of  one  to  whom  the  future  was  as  the 
past. 


THE   WIFE   OF   SEATON.  259 

Full  surely  that  it  shall  be  thus  outpoured, 

Even  to  its  bitterest  dregs.     In  token  of  it, 

The  conquests  thou  hast  gained  thou  shalt  restore 

Ere  thy  career  be  closed.     Thy  very  blessings 

Shall  prove  thy  bane.     A  numerous  progeny, 

The  joy  of  other  men,  shall  be  to  thee 

And  to  thy  realm  the  rankest  seed  of  strife ; 

Like  to  those  horrid  teeth  once  sown  in  earth, 

Whence  sprang  up  armed  men.     Not  Scotland,  then, 

But  thy  own  England  be  the  seat  of  war. 

The  feuds  once  fostered  between  Scot  and  Scot, 

Clansman  and  chieftain,  prince  and  people  here, 

By  arts  of  thine  and  of  thine  emissaries, 

Shall  tenfold  be  returned  on  English  heads. 

I  look !  thy  sworn  successor  dies  by  piecemeal, 

The  ling'ring  death  of  famine !  at  the  hands 

Of  his  own  brutal  subjects,  trained  by  thee 

To  direst  deeds.     I  see  that  ancient  tower, 

Reared  by  the  noblest  Caesar  of  the  twelve, 

What  time  he  conquered  Britain,  though  he  failed 

To  conquer  Caledon.     That  tower  in  ward 

The  sacred  majesty  of  England  holds, 

And  o'er  him  stands  the  crooked  Plantagenet, 

(Monstrous  at  once  in  body  and  in  soul,) 

His  coward  weapon  in  his  captive's  heart. 

Again  that  tower !  the  same  foul  shape  appears, 


260  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

Searching  new  victims ;  and  the  princely  boys 
Are  'reft  of  crown  and  life !     But  what  of  these  ? 
Kings,  princes,  people,  all  are  whelmed  alike 
In  one  vast  tide  of  war.     The  crime  of  Cain 
Renewed  in  each,  ungraced  with  the  remorse 
Of  the  first  man-slayer.     Bosworth !  Tewksbury ! 
Your  fields  are  full  before  me.     In  mine  ears 
The  clash  of  armor  and  the  tramp  of  steeds, 
And  the  fierce  shout  of  triumph,  strangely  mingled 
With  the  death-shriek,  are  there  !     The  paler  rose 
Is  bathed  in  blood,  the  while  its  sanguine  sister 
Glares  with  a  deeper  dye.     This  shall  befall, 
Tyrant,  the  latest  limit  of  thy  line ; 
Until,  at  length,  athwart  to  England's  sky, 
Our  northern  light,  our  Stuart  star  shall  gleam ! 
A  hundred  years  of  havoc  shall  avenge 
THE  WIFE  OF  SEATON  AND  THE  SIEGE  OF  BERWICK! 

END  OF  THE  TBAGEDT. 


CONSIDER ATIOXS    ON   THE   CHARACTER   OF   LADY   MACBETH.        261 


CONSIDERATIONS  ON  THE  CHARACTER  OF  LADY 
MACBETH. 

THE  universality  and  antiquity  of  any  opinion  afford  an 
argument  so  potent  in  favor  of  its  truth,  that  to  attack  it 
is  an  attempt  at  once  difficult  and  thankless.  Those  matters 
which  the  wise  among  mankind  have  passed  upon,  are  generally 
considered  as  put  at  rest,  and  endeavors  at  reversing  a  decision 
of  the  judges  are  accounted  presumptuous  and  irreverent. 
This  acquiescence  in  those  who  have  gone  before  us  is  suited 
to  the  nature  of  a  being  like  man,  so  mentally  as  well  as 
physically  dependent.  It  is  analogous  to  his  nature  in  another 
point  of  view,  as  proceeding  from  the  same  associations  which 
attach  sacredness  to  the  groves  of  antiquity  and  the  sepulchres 
of  our  fathers.  If  the  ashes  of  sages  deserve  and  receive  our 
veneration,  surely  opinions,  the  immortal  part  of  those  sages, 
which  once  informed  and  now  survive  those  ashes,  are  doubly 
deserving  to  be  owned  and  hallowed.  All  this  appears  but 
fitting  and  commendable;  yet  that  such  deference  may  be 
carried  too  far  must  be  acknowledged  on  the  recollection  that 
without  some  departure  from  it,  no  reformation  could  ever 
have  been  effected  either  in  literature  or  religion — a  reflection 


262  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

which  it  is  hoped  will  secure  the  ensuing  remarks  from  the 
imputation  of  disrespect  or  temerity. 

The  tragedy  of  "  Macbeth/'  besides  the  individual  who 
gives  a  name  to  the  play,  presents  to  our  view  another  as  the 
accomplice,  or  as  some  have  it,  the  instigator  of  his  guilt.  This 
personage  is  no  other  than  his  wife.  She  is  considered  by 
many  as  the  principal  figure  in  the  piece,  and  by  a  remarkable 
concurrence  of  opinion,  all  commentators  on  this  author  repre- 
sent her  as  a  combination  of  cruelty  —  a  species  of  female 
demon  —  a  monster*  of  the  poet's  own  creation.  So  far  has 
this  proceeded,  that  Macbeth,  all  bloody  as  he  is,  excites  in  us 
something  like  compassion;  while  his  lady  has  to  bear  the 
double  detestation  due  to  her  own  sins  and  those  of  her  lord. 
It  may  be  well  to  endeavor  at  discovering  the  cause  of  this 
procedure,  apparently  so  unchivalrous,  not  to  say  unjust.  It 
may  perhaps  be  found  where  we  should  least  expect  it  —  even 
in  the  natural  excess  of  those  romantic  and  poetical  concep- 
tions of  the  female  character;  whence  a  far  less  degree  of 
guilt,  where  we  expected  only  impeccable  purity,  will  excite 
more  odium  than  the  most  flagrant  wickedness  in  the  other 
gex.  The  fall  of  angels  is  a  matter  of  record  and  faith ;  yet 
the  fall  of  that  better  half  of  a  race  "  a  little  lower  than  the 
angels,"  startles  us  as  unexpected,  and  revolts  us  as  unnatural 
In  the  representation  of  dramatic  poetry  especially,  where  the 
wonderful  agencies  of  sight  and  sound,  and  scenic  decoration 

*  Steevens. 


CONSIDERATIONS    ON   THE    CHARACTER   OF   LADY   MACBETH.        263 

are  all  employed  to  heighten  the  effect,  which  we  come  to 
witness  with  minds  preoccupied  with  those  visionary  notions  of 
female  perfectibility,  it  is  no  wonder  if  the  rage  of  disappoint- 
ment prevents  our  holding  the  balance  with  a  steady  hand. 
But  in  the  closet,  where  the  judgment  is  less  subject  to  the 
senses,  and  where  woman  is  calmly  looked  on  as  sharing  the 
same  mortal  nature  —  liable  to  like  tempations,  and  sometimes 
gifted  with  similar  passions  as  man ;  where  her  character,  thus 
appreciated,  if  it  lose  in  some  respects,  gains  in  others,  receiving 
neither  exaggerated  encomium  on  the  one  hand,  nor  hyper- 
bolical denunciation  on  the  other ;  but  in  short,  is  considered 
merely  as  a  human  being,  deserving  no  more  reproach  than 
would  attach  to  the  same  crimes  in  the  stronger  sex; — where 
this  is  the  case,  the  decision  of  critics  on  the  character  of  Lady 
Macbeth  appears  to  us  utterly  unaccountable. 

That  this  decision  does  not  conform  to  the  intention  of  the 
author,  seems  to  be  inferred  from  the  general  plan  of  his 
tragedy,  as  well  as  from  particular  passages.  He  would  else 
have  represented  Lady  Macbeth  as  a  leader,  rather  than  an 
associate  in  wickedness.  Had  this  been  the  design,  it  had  also 
been  fitting  that  those  weird  sisters,  who  are  supposed  gifted 
with  a  portion  of  omniscience  to  penetrate  the  purpose  and 
ascertain  the  character,  would  have  made  her  the  first  object 
of  their  mystic  salutation ;  instead  of  which  they  selected 
Macbeth,  whose  conduct  indeed  throughout  the  piece  abun- 
dantly justified  their  choice.  She  appears  wholly  unacquainted 


264  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

with  the  daring  destiny  of  her  husband,  till  apprised  of  it  by 
his  letter.  This  letter  naturally  brings  on  the  soliloquy,  in 
which  the  deed  requisite  for  fulfilling  the  prophecy,  and  the 
nature  of  her  husband  for  attempting  such  a  deed,  are  subjects 
of  speculation.  The  dialogue  between  them  immediately 
preceding  the  arrival  and  death  of  Duncan,  might  at  a  first 
glance  indeed  seem  to  imply  that  she  was  the  mover  of  the 
act. 

"  Macbeth.  My  dearest  love, 
Duncan  comes  here  to-night ! 
Lady  M.  And  when  goes  hence  ? 
Macb.  To-morrow,  as  he  purposes. 
Lady  M.  Never  shall  sun  that  morrow  see." 

But  on  a  more  deliberate  perusal,  and  especially  to  ah1  who 
recollect  the  acting  of  the  late  Mr.  Cooke  in  the  part  of 
Macbeth,  the  words  — 

"  Duncan  comes  here  to-night  I" 

seemed  a  sort  of  emphatic  demand  from  her  of  an  inference 
which  himself  had  already  pondered,  but  dared  not  give  utter- 
ance to.  It  appeared  almost  an  interrogation,  and  was  spoken 
by  Mr.  Cooke  precisely  as  it  would  have  been  had  the  inter- 
rogative been  prefixed  thus : 

What  if "Duncan  comes  here  to  night?" 

She  accordingly,  familiar  with  the  workings  of  his  mind,  and 
seeing  them  now  in  exact  conformity  to  what  her  meditations 


CONSIDERATIONS    ON   THE   CHARACTER   OF  LADY   MACBETH.        265 

had  previously  augured,  interprets  his  half-expressed  meaning, 
and  «  gives  his  thoughts  a  tongue."  This  is  perfectly  coinci- 
dent with  his  whole  conduct  through  the  drama.  He  ponders 
his  crimes ;  fears  to  disclose  them ;  when  disclosed,  hesitates  — 
letting  « I  dare  not,  wait  upon  I  would ;"  finally,  his  ambition 
masters  his  fear,  and  he  proceeds  to  action.  Lady  Macbeth 
appears  to  have  possessed,  together  with  equally  ambitious 
views,  a  stronger  intellect,  a  steadier  purpose  and  more  intre- 
pidity of  execution.  In  fact  her  whole  character,  both  of  mind 
and  heart,  seems  to  have  been  made  of  sterner  stuff;  and  from 
this  very  circumstance  her  guilt,  according  to  Professor  Rich- 
ardson's own  hypothesis,*  ought  to  be  considered  less  aggra- 
vated than  that  of  her  husband;  since  such  as  are  endued 
with  naturally  amiable  propensities,  and  either  pervert  them  to 
their  purpose,  or  act  in  their  despite,  have  much  to  answer  for 
beyond  those,  who  in  sinning  do  no  violence  to  nature,  but 
rather  accord  with  it.  The  same  original  conformation  which 
makes  her  less  amiable  as  a  woman,  makes  her  also  less  crim- 
inal as  an  assassin.  When  the  ingenious  professor  attributed 
to  this  lady  a  character  invariably  savage,  he  must  surely  have 
forgotten  that  remarkable  relenting  which  withheld  her  from 
the  murder  of  the  sleeping  monarch : 

"  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  /  had  done  it." 

*  See  his  Analysis  of  the  Characters  of  Shakespeare. 


266  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

Bearing  in  mind  our  previous  ideas  of  Lady  Macbeth's  collect- 
edness  of  nature,  and  this  trait  alone  is  sufficient  to  redeem  her 
from  utter,  unmitigated  reprobation.  Considering  her  ardent 
aspirations  for  the  crown ;  her  previous  vaunts  of  her  own 
courage;  the  opportunity  that  now  offered  to  gain  the  one  and 
to  prove  the  other ;  and  at  a  moment  so  dreadfully  propitious, 
that  a  similitude,  a  shadow,  which  memory  conjured  up  and 
compared  with  the  slumbering  monarch,  should  wrest  from  her 
the  victim,  at  the  risk  of  losing  him  forever,  at  the  mercy  of 
accident  or  discovery,  and  dependent  solely  on  her  husband, 
whose  infirmity  of  purpose  she  had  before  deprecated,  and 
whose  retorts  she  might  well  expect  when  convicted  of  similar 
"brain  sickness "  with  himself;  this,  we  repeat,  exempts  her 
from  a  total  destitution  of  the  human  charities,  by  showing  her 
accessible  to  filial,  though  not  to  loyal  feeling. 

"We  have  observed  thus  much  on  the  murder  of  Duncan  — 
the  only  crime  in  which  Lady  Macbeth  had  any  direct  partici- 
pation. If  any  palh'ative  for  this  crime,  let  it  not  be  forgotten 
that  in  its  perpetration  conjugal  affection  concurred  with  ambi- 
tion.* It  was  not  that  she  loved  Duncan  less,  but  Macbeth 

*  We  are  at  a  loss  for  the  ground  of  Mr.  Steevens's  suggestion  that  she  was  deficient  in  this 
particular.  To  us,  she  appears  to  have  returned,  after  her  manner,  all  her  lord's  expressions  of 
endearment:  "  my  thane,"  "  my  husband." 

"  Gentle,  my  lord! 

Sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks,  be  bright  and  jovial 
Among  your  guests  to-night 

Macbeth.    I  shall,  my  love, 
And  so,  I  pray,  be  you,"  &c. 


CONSIDERATIONS    ON   THE   CHARACTER   OF   LADY   MACBETH.      267 

more.  At  that  period  of  their  history  the  notions  of  loyalty 
among  the  Scots,  as  well  as  of  every  other  moral  obligation, 
appear  to  have  been  very  loose.  Add  to  this  that  the  char- 
acter of  Duncan,  though  eulogized  by  Macbeth  as  possessing 
virtues  that  would  plead  like  angels  trumpektongued,  was 
virtuous,  like  that  of  too  many  of  his  species,  only  when  com- 
pared with  those  worse  than  themselves.  His  treachery  to  the 
Danes  during  a  recent  truce,  in  which  he  first  inebriated,  then 
murdered  them  (a  circumstance  to  which  Ban  quo  alludes)  was 
the  very  counterpart  of  the  scene  in  which  he  was  himself 
doomed  to  be  a  sufferer.  From  the  perverted  ingenuity  of 
Lady  Macbeth's  reasoning  powers,  of  which  many  examples 
occur  in  the  piece,  it  is  not  improbable  she  might  have  con- 
sidered herself  an  avenger  rather  than  an  assassin  * —  an 
appointed  minister  of  that  "  wild  justice,"  which  Lord  Bacon 
has  so  finely  denominated  revenge.  For  the  commission  of 
this  crime,  however,  prompted  as  it  was  by  the  united  force  of 
ambition,  conjugal  regard,  and  retaliation,  she  was  not  com- 
petent, it  seems,  without  the  aid  of  artificial  stimulants : 

"  That  which  has  made  them  drunk,  has  made  me  bold," 

is  her  exclamation  after  having  drugged  the  potions  of  the 
grooms. 

The  surprisal  of  Macduff  s  castle,  and  the  massacre  of  all 
his  race,  by  far  the  most  savage  deed  in  the  play,  was  the  act 

. 

*  So  too  the  Clytemnestra  of  Eurypides. 


268  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

of  Macbeth  alone.  The  murder  of  Banquo,  also,  was  the  spon- 
taneous suggestion  of  Macbeth's  mind ;  and  when  his  lady 
inquires  respecting  his  meditated  object,  his  reply  seems  to 
indicate  that,  in  her  husband's  opinion,  at  least,  she  was  not 
callous  to  the  inflictions  of  remorse  : — 

"  Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  applaud  the  deed." 

But  if  her  husband's  opinion  were  insufficient,  we  have 
ample  evidence  of  her  susceptibility  to  the  agonies  of  self- 
reproach,  in  the  subsequent  scene,  which  represents  her  as  their 
martyr ;  in  that  bewildered  reason,  those  midnight  walks,  and 
perturbed  ejaculations,  which,  who  that  has  witnessed,  can  ever 
forget?  Marmontel  has  somewhere  invested  misfortune  with 
the  sacred  right  of  purifying  her  victims  from  their  offence,  and 
the  man  whom  Heaven  has  punished,  should  become  innocent 
in  our  sight.  The  furies  which  Lady  Macbeth  had  once  let 
forth  upon  others,  turned  back  upon  their  owner  and  destroyed 
her.  Whatever  were  her  crimes,  her  fate  was  their  avenger. 
The  same  sensibility  which  detests  the  one,  should  commiserate 
the  other.  Had  she  been  the  greatest  of  offenders,  this  would 
be  but  just  to  her ;  that  she  was  not  the  greatest,  we  have 
humbly  attempted  to  establish. 

That  critics,  so  respectable  as  those  employed  on  this  play, 
the  Johnsons,  Steevenses,  Richardsons,  £c.,  should  have  exer- 
cised so  little  of  their  wonted  discrimination  in  regard  to  this 


CONSIDERATIONS   ON   THE   CHARACTER   OF  LADY   MACBETH.      269 

part,  we  have  before  noted  as,  in  our  apprehension,  extraor- 
dinary. That  Lord  Kaimes,  especially,  whose  penetration  as 
a  philosopher  enabled  him  to  investigate  principles  and  con- 
sequences, and  whose  profession  as  a  lawyer  accustomed  him  to 
compare  evidence,  and  decide  .between  contending  claims  — 
that  his  lordship  should  have  pronounced  Lady  Macbeth  a 
"  character  too  bad  to  be  conformable  to  human  nature,"  is  at 
once  too  flattering  to  that  nature  in  general,  and  too  merciless 
to  this  individual  instance.  Lady  Macbeth  participates  with 
her  lord  in  the  murder  of  their  sovereign;  its  recollection 
haunts  her  repose,  and  finally  drives  her  to  madness  and  to 
death.  Macbeth,  to  whom  the  assassination  of  Duncan  was  but 
a  noviciate  in  guilt,  proceeds  from  crime  to  crime,  undeterred 
by  those  compunctious  visitings  which  his  better  sense  continued 
to  him ;  and  finishes  his  career  with  full  possession  of  his  reason, 
with  a  bold  defiance  of  his  fate.  Which  of  these  individuals 
should  seem  the  most  culpable  ?  Yet  the  former  has  been  the 
object  of  anathema,  and  the  latter  of  comparative  condolence. 
It  is  grateful  to  the  philanthropist  to  diminish  the  number 
of  atrocious  offenders,  and  something  is  also  gained  for  poor 
human  nature  by  endeavors  to  lessen  the  enormity  of  offence. 
"Who  would  wantonly  add  weight  to  the  stone  of  Sisyphus?" 
Whatever  items  we  can  fairly  deduct  from  individual  guilt,  we 
so  far  diminish  that  aggregate  which  weighs  so  heavily  on  our 
common  race.  Should  the  preceding  reflections  promote  in 
any  degree  so  salutary  a  purpose,  they  will  scarcely  be  classed 


270  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

with  idle  reveries.  They  refer  to  a  character  which,  considered 
either  as  an  historic  instance  or  a  poetic  fiction,  is  certainly 
entitled  to  justice;  and  those  to  whom  this  claim  would  be 
unavailing,  who  feel  not  Lady  Macbeth's  interests,  may  yet 
take  some  heed  to  their  own ;  since  it  is  probable  few  exercises 
of  the  human  mind  are  more  pernicious,  than  that  which  con- 
sists in  the  contemplation  of  consummate,  unmingled  depra- 
vity. From  this,  the  intellect  in  its  healthy  state  revolts 
with  loathing ;  —  it  is  only  when  diseased  and  morbid  that  it 
discovers  an  appetite  for  poison.  We  are  far  from  contending 
that  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth,  with  every  allowance, 
does  not  exhibit  deplorable  deficiency ;  but  not  that  desperate 
criminality  which,  independent  of  the  disgust  it  occasions,  loses 
its  moral  effect,  since  its  excess  generates  incredulity.  "We 
have  merely  endeavored  that  she  should  not  be  consigned  to 
entire  and  unequalled  infamy;  not  be  considered  a  "monster" 
beyond  parallel ;  not  be  ranked  with  the  Tullias  and  Clytem- 
nestras  of  antiquity;  or  the  Catherines  of  Medicis  and  of 
Muscovy  in  more  recent  times.  We  all  sympathize  with  the 
faithful  follower  of  "  de  Montfort,"  in  that  simple  exclamation 
over  the  body  of  his  master : 

"  Thou  wert  too  good  to  do  a  cruel  deed, 
And  so  it  killed  thee  !" 

Yet  de  Montfort  was  the  murderer  of  his  fellow.  Does  not 
the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth  authorize  the  same  conclusion, 


CONSIDERATIONS    ON   THE   CHARACTER   OF   LADY   MACBETH.        271 

since  her  offence  received  the  same  awful  expiation  ?  Let  this 
reflection  recommend  her  memory  to  our  mercy,  and  spare  her 
in  future  from  proving  that  bitterest  imprecation  of  the  sacred 
writings :  —  "  Thine  eye  shall  not  pity  her !" 

To  educe  good  from  evil  is  the  high  prerogative  only  of 
Divine  Providence.  But  it  is  even  here  within  the  province  of 
the  moral  alchymist  to  attempt  something  like  humble  imita- 
tion. He  can  decompose,  combine,  or  transmute  ;  and  if  in  the 
process  any  latent  good  should  be  elicited,  or  any  superficial 
evil  obliterated,  the  labor  will  not  have  been  in  vain. 


272  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 


CHILDE  HAROLD.* 

THE  dislike  which  we  entertained  towards  the  productions 
of  this  writer,  and  the  personal  disgust  which  he  excited  by 
his  unmanly  behavior  —  to  employ  the  mildest  term  —  towards 
his  wife,  have  hitherto  prevented  us  from  noticing  any  of  his 
productions.  But  the  cause  of  sound  morals  and  good  taste 
requires  that  we  should  suppress  our  own  feelings,  when  the 
republic  is  in  danger;  and  we  do  think  it  is  like  to  sustain  great 
harm,  when  one  of  its  most  conspicuous  personages  is  detected 
in  the  act  of  sapping  the  foundations  of  virtue  by  the  per- 
version of  the  attributes  of  genius. 

That  portion  of  the  British  public  which  is  styled  the 
nobility  and  gentry,  indignant  at  being  stigmatised  as  a  mob  of 
gentlemen  who  wrote  with  ease,  in  the  time  of  the  Stuarts, 
avenged  itself  for  a  long  time,  by  not  writing  at  all.  Since  the 
Hanoverian  succession,  the  catalogue  of  royal  and  noble  authors 
has  received  few  additions,  until  within  a  few  years,  when  Lord 
Holland,  Lord  Strangford,  and  the  writer  of  the  production 
before  us,  appeared  the  most  conspicuous  among  those  of  their 

*Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.     A   Romaunt.     Canto  III.     By  Lord  Byron.     New  York, 
reprinted. 


CHILDE   HAROLD.  273 

rank  who  have  cultivated  polite  literature  with  assiduity  and 
success.  The  last  nobleman,  it  is  well  known,  first  distinguished 
himself  in  a  poetical  satire,  written  with  all  the  personality, 
though  not  the  party  spirit  of  Churchill,  and  combining  equal 
vigor  with  accumulated  bitterness.  For  this  publication,  its 
author  has  since  expressed  his  regret;  and  the  expression  would 
be  honorable  to  him  if  regret  had  been  followed  by  reforma- 
tion. But  the  tone  of  his  subsequent  productions  affords 
melancholy  evidence,  that  the  evil  spirit  which  breathed  those 
numbers,  has  never  been  finally  exorcised,  nor  even  laid  for  a 
season.  Next  in  order  to  the  satire  to  which  we  have  alluded, 
was  the  poem  of  which  the  present  canto  is  a  continuation. 
On  its  first  appearance,  opinions  of  its  merit  were,  as  usual, 
various  and  contradictory.  Its  very  title  was  not  without 
allurement ;  and  awakening  one  of  those  associations,  by  which 
a  world  of  thought  may  be  connected  with  a  word,  the  name  of 
a  pilgrimage  recalled  the  days  of  romance  and  achievement,  of 
knights  and  princes,  of  Bruce,  St.  Louis,  and  Kichard  Coeur  de 
Lion ;  —  when  a  pilgrimage  was  undertaken  to  encounter  peril, 
or  to  expiate  offence.  It  was,  indeed,  found  on  proceeding, 
that  the  fashion  of  pilgrimages,  as  of  every  thing  else,  had 
partaken  the  mutations  of  this  mutable  world ;  but  the  name 
continued,  and  has  doubtless  attracted  many  an  ear,  which 
might  have  revolted  at  the  ordinary  denomination  of  travels  or 
adventures.  The  heaviness  of  the  Spenser-stanza,  so  unsuited 


274  POEMS   AXD    MISCELLANIES. 

to  our  language,  however  congenial  to  that  of  Italy,  deterred 
some  from  accompanying  the  "  Childe"  in  his  peregrinations. 
Others  persevered,  and  though  confined  to  the  society  of  a 
most  frigid  churl,  found  some  relief  to  its  melancholy  monot- 
ony from  those  occasional  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  which 
diversify  what  otherwise  were  a  dreary  waste.  Misanthropy, 
when  resulting  from  the  contact  of  ardent  feelings  with  the 
chill  atmosphere  of  the  world,  from  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness soured  by  ingratitude,  or  the  visions  of  fancy  dispelled  and 
disappointed  by  the  realities  of  experience;  —  misanthropy 
from  any  cause,  indeed,  where  the  sufferer  is  more  "sinned 
against  than  sinning,"  is  a  character  of  mind  than  which  few 
excite  deeper  interest,  and  on  the  stage  or  in  the  closet,  it  has 
exercised  a  most  powerful  fascination.  Very  different  from  all 
this  is  the  misanthropy  of  Childe  Harold.  It  is  a  display  of 
sullen  and  proud,  and  morbid  selfishness ;  an  elaborate  and 
repulsive  exhibition  of  the  worst  feelings  of  our  nature,  as  seen 
through  the  deforming  medium  of  a  distempered  imagination. 
If  this  be,  indeed,  our  nature,  which  we  take  leave  to  doubt  — 
since  though  there  may  occasionally  be  monsters  in  the  moral 
as  in  the  physical  world,  they  are  not  in  the  usual  order  of 
nature,  but  out  of  it,  and  who  cares  to  see  them?  —  but,  if 
such  were  our  nature,  we  are  not  obliged  by  the  unhallowed 
curiosity  which  would  force  it  on  our  inspection. 

"  Heaven's  sovereign  spares  all  beings  but  himself, 
That  hideous  sight,  a  naked  human  heart," 


CHILDE  HAROLD.  275 

and  the  veil  that  we  owe  to  the  mercy  of  heaven,  should  not 
rashly  be  rent  asunder  by  the  malice  of  man. 

Lord  Byron  has  been  at  some  pains  to  disclaim  all  identity 
with  his  hero,  and  we  are  willing  to  take  him  at  his  word ; 
but  the  striking  resemblance  between  the  features  of  what 
he  advances  in  propria  persona,  and  what  he  expresses  by  his 
characters,  somewhat  impeaches  his  credit.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
we  believe  the  effect  of  the  "  Childe"  was,  to  leave  on  its 
readers,  friends  as  well  as  foes,  a  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  with 
the  hero,  the  author,  and  themselves.  Of  the  gross  impieties 
of  that  work,  we  say  nothing,  as  they  have  been  sufficiently 
exposed  in  the  journals  of  the  noble  author's  own  nation ;  nor 
have  the  impurities  of  his  later  productions  escaped  the  public 
justice,  that  should  ever  fall  on  offences  of  which  genius,  instead 
of  being  a  palliative,  is  an  aggravation.  Of  Childe  Harold  we 
expected  to  see  no  more,  but  he  now  reappears,  and  we  are 
sorry  to  say,  utterly  unchanged  by  time  or  circumstance  since 
we  last  met  him.  Far  from  advancing,  he  seems  to  have 
retrograded  in  interest;  and  —  spite  of  the  dexterous  inter- 
weaving of  matters  personal  to  the  writer  with  the  musings 
of  his  Harold,  we  are  but  little  moved.  Perhaps  the  very 
frequency  with  which  this  occurs  has  defeated  its  own  designs. 
Sorrow,  like  piety,  we  know  to  be  a  sacred  and  secluded  thing; 
it  shuns,  rather  than  solicits,  notice,  and  seems  eager  to  recall 
even  its  inadvertent  complainings.  Even  bodily  privations  — 
the  most  affecting  of  all  calamities,  because  obvious  to  all, 


276  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

might  repel  our  pity  if  the  subject  of  perpetual  lamentation ; 
and  Milton's  allusion  to  his  blindness,  and  that  of  Cowper  to 
his  awful  mental  malady,  would,  by  too  constant  repetition, 
harden  rather  than  excite  our  sympathies.  The  example  of 
his  favorite,  Jean  Jacques,  might  have  taught  this  lesson  to  the 
noble  author.  Under  a  sense  of  real  or  supposed  injury,  to 
renounce  his  kind,  and  hide  his  miseries  with  himself  from 
society,  was  natural  and  therefore  touching.  Far  be  it  from  us 
to  judge  lightly  of  such  suffering,  because  possibly  visionary. 
Whether  actual  or  imaginary  in  its  cause,  it  was  real  in  its 
effect  on  the  individual,  and  as  such  commands  our  commisera- 
tion. All  we  would  remark  is,  that  he  did  not  raise  the  spectre 
of  his  griefs  in  every  page,  like  the  author  before  us,  till  we 
most  heartily  exclaim  with  Denmark's  heir, 

"  Rest,  rest,  poor  ghost ! " 

Enough,  and  perhaps  the  reader  may  think,  too  much,  of 
character;  let  us  come  now  to  diction.  The  radical  and 
reigning  defects  of  Lord  Byron's  style  are  its  inflation  and 
obscurity  —  the  latter  being,  in  some  degree,  a  necessary  con- 
sequence of  the  former ;  and  both  together  forming  more  than 
a  match  for  any  ordinary  reader.  Nothing  can  supply  the 
want  of  perspicuity  in  prose  or  verse  ;  but  the  absence  of  this 
quality  is  more  severely  felt  in  the  latter  style  of  composition, 
where  we  are  unwilling  that  a  recreation  should  be  converted 
into  a  task.  In  no  department  of  the  muse  is  this  a  pardonable 


CHILDE   HAROLD.  277 

fault,  except  the  lyric  and  dramatic,  and  there  only  because 
the  instrument  in  the  one  case  and  the  action  in  the  other 
may  supply  the  defect  of  the  bard.  In  all  .other  instances, 
obscurity  is  a  defect,  and  one  of  which  this  canto  affords  so 
many  specimens  that  we  select  the  following  only  because 
among  the  earliest,  to  gratify  the  amateurs  of  the. occult. 

"  "Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 

A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 

With  form  one  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give, 

The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 

What  am  I !    Nothing ;  but  not  so  art  thou, 

Soul  of  my  thought !  with  whom  I  treasure  earth, 

Invisible  but  gazing  as  I  glow, 

Mixed  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 

And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crushed  feelings  dearth." 

And  again : 

"  What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar  ? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear, 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquished,  bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission  ;  in  his  lair, 
Fixed  passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years !  none  need  despair : 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come,  — the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive  — in  one  we  shall  be  slower." 

Slower  than  what?    We  do  not  assert  that  these  stanzas, 
and  many  such  as  these,  have  absolutely  no  meaning;  —  we  say 


278  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

only,  it  is  not  sufficiently  apparent  for  the  purposes  of  poetry, 
and  that  those  who  readily,  and  without  much  reflection, 
divine  it,  may  venture  with  encouraging  anticipations  among 
the  mysticisms  of  Jacob  Bemen. 

On  the  whole,  however,  we  suspect  Lord  Byron  has  found 
it  for  his  interest  to  adopt  this  manner.  Opinions  and  senti- 
ments but  half  revealed  may  serve  as  a  test  of  public  taste ; 
and  according  to  the  reception  of  these  "  ambiguous  givings 
out,"  may  their  future  development  be  pursued  or  renounced. 
Hid  under  the  hieroglyphic  of  an  inuendo,  much  may  safely  be 
hazarded,  which  it  were  indiscreet  to  divulge ;  and  hence  we 
may  account  for  what  else  might  be  unaccountable  —  how 
misses  can  read  to  their  mammas,  and  quote  to  their  admirers, 
the  Turkish  tales  of  the  writer  without  hesitation,  and  how 
grave  matrons  to  whose  offspring  the  works  of  Goethe,  Godwin, 
or  Rousseau  are  sealed  books,  can  introduce  and  recommend 
to  their  acquaintance  a  far  more  pernicious  companion.  But 
danger,  it  will  be  remembered,  is  not  the  less  danger  for  being 
concealed.  The  mine  to  which  a  match  has  been  laid,  will 
inevitably  explode  under  the  tread  of  a  passenger,  though  he 
may  have  ventured  on  it  once  and  again  without  injury.  Lord 
Byron  is  sufficiently  intimate  with  human  nature  to  know  that 
the  equivoques  in  which  he  deals,  will  accomplish  his  purpose 
surely,  however  slowly.  If  the  writer  draw  but  the  outline, 
the  reader  will  ultimately  fill  it  up.  Let  a  meaning  be  hinted, 
and  there  is  always  a  powerful  ally  within,  to  intepret  the 


CHILDE   HAROLD.  279 

whispering  of  the  tempter  without.  The  asp  once  applied, 
there  is  no  necessity  of  renewing  the  application ;  the  venom 
may  confidently  be  trusted  to  work  its  own  way. 

We  mentioned  as  another  characteristic  of  his  lordship,  a 
destitution,  perhaps  disdain  of  the  grace  of  simplicity.  All  is 
inflated,  extravagant,  and  hyperbolical.  There  is  no  resting- 
place  for  the  feelings,  where  one  may  stop  and  take  breath 
before  he  proceeds.  The  author  breathes  only  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  exaggeration,  and  you  must  go  on  and  faint  not, 
respiring  as  he  does  —  if  you  can.  Now  this  is  evidently  arti- 
ficial, and  therefore,  repels  sympathy.  It  cannot  be  natural. 
No  man  can  exist  long  in  a  perpetual  fever ;  or,  if  an  illustration 
drawn  from  disease  befits  not  our  poet,  the  sea  itself — no 
unworthy  emblem  of  his  impetuous  genius,  is  not  always  "  at 
the  flood."  One  example  may  suffice  in  support  of  the  charge 
—  it  is  where  his  lordship  is  about  to  describe  the  impressions 
common  to  all  who  have  ever  visited  the  summits  of  a  lofty 
mountain ;  the  unuttered,  unutterable  reflections,  or  rather  the 
suspension  of  all  reflection,  when,  as  has  been  finely  observed, 
"  we  rather  feel  than  think."  Behold  how  this  natural  and 
simple  emotion  is  bloated  into  bombast  in  the  following 
stanza : — 

"  Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me, —  could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 


280  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 

Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe  —  into  one  word, 

And  that  one  word  were  lightning,  I  would  speak  ; 

But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 

With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword." 

The  flaming  sword  of  Angantyr  himself,  as  it  figures  in 
Runic  mythology,  never  had  more  pomp  and  circumstance 
attending  its  interment,  than  has  this  shadowy  brand  of  lord 
Byron  !  Perhaps  there  is  no  modern  writer  of  similar  dimen- 
sions so  worthy  a  place  in  the  next  edition  of  Scriblerus. 
Poetical  enthusiasm  must  be  kept  within  the  bounds  of  nature ; 
at  any  rate  we  do  not  think  Lord  Byron  is  one  of  the  eagle- 
pinioned  tribe  who  can 

Soar  through  the  trackless  bounds  of  space 

and  indulge  in  those  fine  phrenzies  which  are  impervious  to 
ordinary  capacities. 

The  ensuing  lines  are  in  far  better  taste,  and  explicit,  and 
we  think,  in  our  author's  happiest  manner,  both  in  the  deline- 
ation of  a  tranquil  and  of  a  troubled  scene. 

"  Clear,  placid  Leman,  thy  contrasted  lake, 

"With  the  wide  world  I  dwell  in,  is  a  thing 

Which  warns  me  with  its  stillness  to  forsake 

Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 

To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 

Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 

Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 

That  I,  with  stern  delights  should  e're  have  been  so  moved." 


CHILDE   HAROLD.  281 

And  now, 

"  The  sky  is  changed  !  —  and  such  a  change !  Oh  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !     Far  along 
From  peak  to  peak  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Gura  answers  from  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps  who  call  to  her  aloud." 

The  illustrations  that  follow,  though  their  force  is,  perhaps, 
weakened  by  extension,  are  strikingly  appropriate,  and  possess 
great  poetical  beauty. 

"  They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length ;  and,  smiling,  mourn ; 

The  tree  will  wither,  long  before  it  fall  ; 

The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn ; 

The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  wall 

In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruined  wall 

Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are  gone  ; 

The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthrall ; 

The  day  drags  through,  though  storms  keep  out  the  sun  ; 

And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on." 

Among  his  descriptions  of  Alpine  scenery,  Lord  Byron  has 
paid  a  just  tribute  to  the  memory  of  that  Julia,  who  gave  to 
a  former  age  an  example  of  self-devotedness,  similar  to  that 
which  the  French  revolution  has  afforded  in  our  own  time,  and 
whose  filial  piety  recalls  to  our  remembrance  the  memorable 


282  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

words  of  the  daughter  of  Malesherbes  to  her  more  fortunate 
companion : — "  you  have  the  glory  of  saving  your  father,  and 
I  have  the  consolation  to  die  with  mine !" 

We  passed  over  the  stanzas  relating  to  Waterloo  ;  for  Scott 
and  Southey  have  traversed  the  ground  before,  and  the  public 
by  this  time  have  "  supped  full  with  horrors."  A  more  unre- 
proved  banquet  as  well  as  unexpected,  is  furnished  in  the 
57th  and  58th  pages.  The  sketches  of  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  and 
Gibbon,  are  given  with  much  discrimination  and  strength  of 
outline,  so  as  to  excite  in  us  the  fervent  wish  that  Lord  Byron 
might  no  longer  employ  his  pencil  in  carricaturing  ideal 
Harolds,  but  rather  exercise  its  skill  on  a  gallery  of  portraits 
from  real  characters. 

Of  the  minor  faults  in  this  canto,  may  be  mentioned  a  more 
frequent  ruggedness  of  versification  than  we  recollect  to  have 
before  witnessed  in  its  author.  Examples  are  not  wanting  of 
that  petty  play  or  fancy,  which,  for  want  of  a  more  definite 
term,  is  styled  conceit ;  and  the  thing  signified,  together  with  its 
sign,  would  agree  better  with  a  structure  of  verse  formed,  like 
that  of  Leigh  Hunt,  on  the  Italian  model.  There  are  in- 
stances of  tautology,  as,  "  wld-bewldered  "  of  expletive,  where 
"  Brunswick  did  hear ;  and  of  the  obsolete,  like  " sheen"  " blent" 
&c.,  which  are  neither  useful  nor  ornamental.  These,  indeed, 
are  trifles ;  if  any  thing  can  justly  be  so  classed  in  a  writer  of 
celebrity,  whose  blemishes  are  far  more  easily  imitated  than 
his  beauties.  That  the  works  of  Lord  Byron  contain  beauties, 


CHILDE   HAROLD.  283 

both  of  thought  and  expression,  is  not  denied.  They  certainly 
do  ;  but  unless  finer  and  more  frequent  than  those  of  any 
other — which  they  certainly  do  not — their  evil  is  more  than  a 
counterpoise  to  their  good,  and  leaves  them  little  claim  to  rank 
with  their  less  exceptionable  cotemporaries.  Fortunately  for 
the  lovers  of  English  poetry,  the  present,  beyond  any  preced- 
ing era,  has  adorned  the  United  Kingdom  with  a  cluster  of 
poets,  whose  lives  and  writings  reflect  mutual  lustre  on  each 
other.  In  the  north,  beside  the  lofty  strains  of  their  dramatic 
muse,  we  have  the  bold  and  beautiful  imagination  of  Campbell, 
with  the  elevation  of  an  angel  and  the  tenderness  of  a  man ; 
and  Scott,  whose  varied  and  mellifluous  versification  is  glowing 
with  the  prismatic  colors,  and  like  the  mists  of  the  Highlands, 
embodying  a  spirit.  In  England ;  the  claimants  crowd  upon 
our  memory  —  Montgomery,  whose  lips  seem  to  be  purified  by 
a  living  spark  from  the  altar,  like  those  of  the  bard  whom 
he  most  resembles  in  his  fervors  of  piety  and  patriotism; 
"Wordsworth  the  philosophy  of  whose  rural  reveries,  if  not 
always  intelligible  is  often  affecting ;  and  Southey,  w^hose 
protean  genius  through  all  its  transformations,  whether  as  a 
British  druid,  or  a  Spanish  chronicler,  an  Arabian  Dervise,  or 
an  Indian  Bramin,  is  constantly  followed  with  delight  and 
admiration ! 

Visions  of  glory  spare  the  aching  sight ! 

We  have  considered  Lord  Byron  as  a  poet  only ;  as  such 
only  we  should  wish  to  regard  him;  but  he  has  chosen  to 


284  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

obtrude  himself  upon  us  by  combining  the  memoirs  of  the  man 
with  the  minstrelsy  of  the  writer.  It  has  been  usual  for 
matrimonial  dissension  to  confine  itself  to  the  family  hearth, 
for  the  sole  edification  and  amusement  of  children  and  domes- 
tics,—  and  the  world  without  was  never  the  wiser.  But  such 
guarded  decorums  were  only  for  plebeians ;  and  the  quarrels  of 
lords  and  ladies,  like  those  of  Olympian  deities,  are  to  agitate 
a  universe.  The  names  of  Lord  and  Lady  Byron  have  been 
"  hung  on  high"  by  the  gazettes  of  Europe,  and,  thanks  to 
the  invention  of  letters  and  the  facilities  of  commerce,  they 
seem  to  be  destined  to  attain  similar  "  bad  eminence,"  in  our 
own  distant  republic.  We  should  have  passed  them  by,  how- 
ever, with  mingled  feelings  of  pity,  contempt,  and  indignation, 
did  not  the  present  production  contain  references  and  confes- 
sions that  call  for  more  decided  animadversion.  That  Lord 
Byron  should  avow  his  contempt  for  a  church  links,"  and  his 
preference  of  "  unwed  "  love,  excites  no  surprise ;  being  perfect- 
ly in  accordance  with  all  his  former  writings,  in  which  love  is 
constantly  represented  as  an  instinct  rather  than  a  sentiment, 
and  where  we  discover  not  even  one  instance  of  any  other 
than  an  illicit  connection.  Love,  to  his  Lordship's  taste,  must 
be  lawless  as  his  Corsair,  or  licentious  as  his  Giaour ;  and,  to 
do  him  justice,  he  seems  as  incapable  of  feigning  as  of  feeling 
the  comforts  of  a  legitimate  attachment.  Here,  then,  in  itself 
considered,  was  no  matter  for  astonishment.  The  wonder  is, 
only,  how  a  poem  containing  such  sentiments  should  be  pre- 


CHILDE   HAROLD.  285 

h 

faced   and   concluded  with  a  direct  address  to  his  daughter 

an  infant  daughter!  Should  the  passage  in  question  ever 
meet  her  eye,  surely  it  will  be  obliterated  by  her  tears !  Those 
whom  the  majesty  of  heaven  could  not  arrest,  have  sometimes 
been  awed  by  the  innocence  of  infancy.  But  we  grow  solemn. 
Cumberland  dedicated  his  works  to  his  daughter,  Sir  Phillip 
Sydney,  to  his  sister  ;  Mr.  Eoscoe,  to  his  wife  : —  for  they  were 
calculated  to  excite  no  glow  but  that  of  grateful  exultation. 
Even  Wilkes,  in  his  poetic  trifles  that  have  a  similar  designa- 
tion, breathes  nothing  but  refinement.  Should  Lord  Byron 
ever  address  another  poem  to  his  child,  may  it  be  such  as  she 
can  read  without  a  blush  for  her  unworthy  parent. 

The  minor  poems  attached  to  this  volume  had  not  been 
published  when  these  remarks  were  written,  and  we  have 
already  occupied  so  many  pages  that  we  shall  not  trespass  any 
longer  on  the  reader,  than  to  acknowledge  that  this  canto 
contains  some  just  reflections,  and  much  moralizing  truth.  But 
these  expressions,  from  so  polluted  a  source,  are  to  us,  we 
confess,  only  less  disgusting  than  the  effrontery  with  which 
•their  opposites  are  as  frequently  avowed,  and  forcibly  remind 
us  of  De  la  Borders  prophecy  concerning  Rousseau :  — 

"And  in  those  days  there  shall  come  a  philosopher,  preaching  from 
the  borders  of  a  lake.  And  when  he  talks  about  virtue  and  morality, 
no  one  shall  le  able  to  discover  ivhat  is  either  virtue  or  morality." 


286  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 


ROKEBY.* 

To  assert  the  instability  of  popular  opinion,  would  be  to 
urge  a  truth  so  trite,  it  is  obvious  to  all ;  but  the  consequent 
variations  of  taste  being  less  apparent,  do  not  engage  so  much 
of  our  attention.  To  follow  this  fluctuating  faculty  in  its  pro- 
gress through  the  several  ages  since  the  revival  of  letters,  and 
amid  all  the  material  and  mental  objects  it  embraces,  might  be 
u  curious  philosophical  disquisition,  but  unsuited  to  the  length 
of  the  present  article,  and  the  nature  of  this  journal.^  Such 
disquisition)  however,  would  be  far  from  mere  idle  speculation 
or  amusiiag  reverie.  This  salutary  lesson,  among  others,  might 
be  drawn  from  it ;  that  if  writers  possess  the  high  privilege  of 
ruling  public  opinion,  there  is  always  a  sort  of  re-action  in  that 
public,  which  gives  law,  in  its  turn,  to  its  former  sovereigns. 
Hence  those  who  have  been  led  by  a  love  of  novelty,  or  turn 
for  paradox,  to  introduce  strange  systems,  either  of  sentiment 
or  style,  have  been  compelled  to  continue  from  necessity  what 
they  commenced  from  caprice.  The  public  was  pleased  with 
the  peculiarity,  and  its  author  obliged  —  perhaps  against  his 


*  Robeky  :  a  Poem,  by  Walter  Scott.    Boston;  published  by  Bradford  and  Reed.    1813. 
t  The  Portfolio. 


ROKEBY.  287 

recovered  sense  —  to  persevere,  or  forfeit  his  popularity.  The 
'  coarse  conceits  and  licentious  jestings  of  the  mob  of  gentlemen 
in  King  Charles's  days,  might  have  originated  in  the  momentary 
wish  of  pleasing  the  monarch  or  amusing  the  circle.  Effusions 
of  the  moment,  they  were  intended,  perhaps,  with  the  moment 
to  terminate.  At  least  there  appears  to  have  been  nothing  like 
settled  systematic  design  upon  the  interests  of  society.  But 
given  to  the  world,  and  become  the  order  of  the  day,  the  public 
taste  once  regaled  with  the  stimulating  banquet,  would  be 
satisfied  with  no  other.  This  appetite,  first  injudiciously  excited, 
maybe  said  to  have  afterward  "made  the  meat  it  fed  on;" 
since  its  demands  were  such,  that  we  must  in  charity  suppose 
the  original  caterers  had  reason  to  regret  their  imperious  popu- 
larity. In  our  own  time,  indeed,  we  have  little  reason  to 
apprehend  any  inroads  on  social  morals.  Such  attempts  would 
be  frowned  into  extinction,  not  only  by  the  mass  of  mankind, 
but  by  those  portions  of  it  who  are  emphatically  the  "  makers 
of  manners."  The  fashion,  fortunately  for  us,  is  usually  on  the 
side  of  virtue.  But  from  perversions  of  our  literature  we  have 
more  to  dread,  because  from  these  we  are  far  less  secure  ;  and 
these,  though  secondary,  will  not  be  deemed  of  trivial  import, 
by  any  who  consider  the  close  affinity  of  justness  of  action, 
with  propriety  of  expression  —  the  delicate  but  indissoluble  tie 
which  connects  refinement  of  taste  with  correctness  of  char- 
acter. Let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  the  same  elegant  essayist 
who  first  successfully  inculcated  purity  of  morals,  had  also  the 


288  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

glory  of  rescuing  the  poems  of  Milton  from  their  partial 
oblivion,  and  recommending  them  to  the  notice  of  his  country. 
These  remarks  will  not,  it  is  hoped,  be  considered  a  digres- 
sion from  the  head  of  this  article.  Nothing,  surely,  which 
treats  of  variety,  popularity,  or  novelty,  can  be  irrelative  to  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Scott.  This  gentleman  is  generally  styled  the 
founder  of  a  new  school  of  poetry,  but  the  title  is  not  strictly 
applicable.  The  works  of  Mr.  Scott  are,  in  fact,  a  revival  of 
the  early  English  poems  commonly  called  ballads ;  a  collection 
of  the  best  specimens  from  which  was  published  some  years 
since  by  the  late  Dr.  Percy ;  who  on  this  account  is  by  Mr. 
Scott  somewhere  acknowledged  "  the  father  of  this  species  of 
poetry."  To  one  kind  of  originality,  however,  the  author  of 
"  The  Lay"  appears  fairly  entitled.  We  know  of  no  other  poet 
who,  writing  in  his  own  person,  and  for  his  own  time,  ever 
entertained  the  strange  conceit  of  collecting  and  localizing  in 
his  works,  all  the  colloquial  barbarisms  and  provincial  phrases, 
which  were  scattered  amongst  the  wildest  class  of  the  wild- 
est people,  at  a  distant  and  even  disgusting  period  of  their 
national  history.  The  works  of  Macpherson,  and  the  wonder- 
ful fragments  of  Chatterton,  it  is  true,  were  written  in  an 
ancient  dialect ;  but  they  were  designed  to  pass  for  antiques, 
and  the  diction  was  hence  perfectly  suitable  to  the  date  of  their 
supposed  authors.  Both  Chatterton  and  Macpherson  would 
have  ridiculed  the  project  of  publishing  in  their  own  name 
works  of  this  kind,  as  equal  in  absurdity  to  that  of  stamping 


ROKEBY.  289 

our  present  coin  with  the  impression  which  was  current  three 
hundred  years  back.  This  absurdity  is  so  palpable,  that  while 
we  admit,  as  high  proof  of  Mr.  Scott's  powers,  his  being  able  to 
make  the  public  forget  it,  we  cannot  look  on  this  forgetfulness 
as  equally  honorable  to  that  public.  We  have  no  dislike  to 
the  ancient  ballad-writing.  It  was  perfect  in  its  season ;  and 
had  it  no  other  merit,  would  be  of  inestimable  value  for  the 
evidence  it  affords,  that  poetry,  in  some  form  or  other,  is  natural 
to  man.  But  the  lullaby  that  charmed  us  in  our  cradle,  would 
be  childish  and  harsh  to  our  maturer  ear,  and  after  so  much 
talent  and  labor  have  been  employed  in  bringing  forward  and 
perfecting  our  language,  to  retrograde  in  this  way  is  to  treat 
our  benefactors  with  ingratitude  by  rejecting  their  toils  as 
unnecessary. 

An  apologist  for  Mr.  Scott's  manner,  has  lately  considered 
all  wishes  at  altering  it  to  be  quite  as  unreasonable  as  to  exact 
"  our  exchanging  the  weapons  to  which  we  have  been  trained, 
and  which  we  prefer,  for  the  cumbrous  armor  of  our  ancestors." 
The  metaphor,  however  ingenious,  is  applicable  only  in  illus- 
trating the  opposite  opinion  to  that  intended  by  the  author. 
It  is  this  exchange  of  our  accustomed  weapons  for  the  cum- 
brous armor  of  our  ancestors,  which  is  the  very  fault  alleged 
against  Mr.  Scott.  "We  have  warriors  introduced  to  us  in 
the  nineteenth  century  who  are  gauntleted  and  glaived  after 
the  fashion  of  their  predecessors  in  the  age  of  chivalry.  All 
this  in  the  literal  sense  is  very  proper.  We  must  not  be  under- 


290  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

stood  to  express  any  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  adapting  the 
costume  of  personages  in  poems,  as  in  paintings,  to  the  tune  of 
their  supposed  existence,  not  to  that  of  the  publication.  But 
though  this  may  with  propriety  be  allowed  to  drapery,  it  is  not 
as  to  language,  for  the  best  of  all  reasons,  because  it  would  be 
unintelligible.  We  can  recognize  James  V.  to  be  king  of 
Scotland,  notwithstanding  his  bonnet  and  doublet  should  be 
very  unlike  those  his  present  majesty  of  both  kingdoms  might 
probably  wear,  if  he  chanced  to  visit  Holyrood.  But  we  cannot 
so  readily  recognize  the  character  of  such  terms  as  "  stalwort," 
"  gramarge,"  &c.,  without  reference  to  a  glossary,  an  act  which 
changes  a  poetic  entertainment  to  the  drudgery  of  a  school 
exercise.  Had  Gray  incorporated  with  his  "  Descent  of  Odin," 
particular  phrases  from  the  Norse  tongue,  the  description  might 
have  been  very  grand,  but  to  most  readers  very  mysterious ;  or 
had  the  narrator  of  Madoc's  enterprises  celebrated  his  hero  in 
the  Welsh  idiom,  our  admiration  had  hardly  been  retained  at 
hearing  hur  was  born  in  Gwyneth,  hur  was  voyaged  to  Aztlaii,  but 
the  sublime  must  have  yielded  to  the  ludicrous. 

In  the  last  poem  of  Mr.  Scott,  we  are  happy  to  see  less  of 
the  obsolete,  we  think,  than  in  its  predecessors.  The  period  it 
represents  is  also  nearer  to  our  own  times,  being  that  of  the 
civil  wars  between  Charles  I.  and  Cromwell.  We  had  intended 
a  sketch  of  the  plot,  but  relinquished  it  as  superfluous,  since  the 
public  curiosity  will  have  anticipated  any  analysis.  In  both  the 
plan  and  execution  of  the  poem,  its  readers  will  perceive  many 


ROKEBY.  291 

of  the  characteristic  beauties  and  defects  of  its  author.  The 
old  objection  which  was  urged  against  his  former  works,  of 
a  sameness  of  characters  amongst  them  all,  applies  with  still 
greater  force  to  the  present,  with  the  single  exception  of  Wil- 
frid. In  Bertrand,  the  real  hero  of  the  piece,  we  discover  every 
trait  of  Rhoderic  Dhu,  but  his  love.  Redmond  reminds  us  of 
the  Graeme ;  Matilda  is  the  transcript  of  Ellen.  Of  these  latter, 
not  only  the  natures,  but  the  situations  are  similar.  Both  are 
forced  to  the  alternative,  either  of  sacrificing  the  life  of  a 
father,  or,  renouncing  the  lover  they  prefer  for  a  marriage  with 
the  one  to  whom  they  are  adverse.  De  Wilton,  in  "Marmion," 
is  left  for  dead  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  his  end  so  undoubted, 
that  when  met  upon  the  heath  he  is  supposed  an  apparition ; 
and  the  horror  of  the  encounter  completely  unnerves  his  potent 
adversary.  In  this  poem,  the  assassin  of  Mortham  considered 
he  had  " made  all  sure" 

"  'Twas  then  I  fired  my  petronel, 
"  And  Mortham,  steed  and  rider  fell ; 
"  One  dying  look  he  upward  cast, 
"  Of  wrath  and  anguish  —  'twas  his  last." 

Yet  is  this  chieftain  afterward  resuscitated,  and  his  appear- 
ance excites  the  same  ghostly  apprehensions  which  had  before 
been  so  effectual  in  the  case  of  Marmion.  Here,  indeed,  the  vis- 
itation is  even  more  opportune,  as  it  interposes  in  the  very  last 
event  of  things,  like  Mr.  Lewis's  castle-spectre,  for  the  pious 
purpose  of  preventing  bloodshed.  The  heroes  have  not  only 


292  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

the  same  general  resemblance  in  character,  but  in  person.  "We 
see  a  family  likeness  in  their  forms  and  features.  Mr.  Scott 
seems  to  have  no  idea  of  a  warrior  who  is  not  broad-shouldered, 
high-chested,  dark-browed,  with  mighty  arms,  and  gigantic 
stature ;  and  did  we  use  no  other  measure  but  his  for  heroes,  we 
must  be  tempted  to  disbelieve  there  ever  was  such  a  being  as 
Alexander  the  Great,  or  William  of  Orange,  or  Bonaparte. 

If  invention,  either  in  character,  situation,  or  incident,  be 
essential  to  form  the  perfect  poet,  it  will  not  be  too  much  to 
say  that  Mr.  Scott  has  not  yet  attained  this  point  of  consum- 
mation. His  scenery  and  events  have  little  diversity;  his 
dramatic  personae  never  change.  Knights,  barons,  minstrels, 
pages,  warders —  these  he  has  made  our  old  acquaintance,  and 
while  we  acknowledge  their  claim,  on  that  account,  to  our 
friendship,  we  should  be  glad  of  a  chance  to  exercise  hos- 
pitality, by  an  introduction,  now  and  then,  to  accomplished 
strangers.  Inanimate  nature  has  also  reason  to  prefer  a  like 
complaint.  Of  her  thousand  protean  forms  she  is  sketched  in 
only  a  few ;  and  these  few  are  continually  recurring.  It  has 
been  said  of  Shakspeare's  characters,  that  not  only  are  pre- 
served the  stronger  contrasts,  those  of  the  good  and  the  bad ; 
—  but  that  the  numerous  personages  in  each  of  these  classes 
are  greatly  diversified.  Hamlet  is  not  only  unlike  Richard  III., 
but  Horatio  is  unlike  Hamlet.  Mercutio  differs  from  Benedick, 
and  Falstaff  from  both.  Nothing  can  be  more  dissimilar  than 
is  the  description  of  circumstances,  individuals,  and  countries, 


ROKEBY.  293 

in  the  poem  of  «  Madoc,"  to  the  whole  system  of  Thalaba,"  and 
again,  to  that  of  «  Kehama."  The  tranquil  loveliness  of  land- 
scape presented  us  in  Campbell's  « Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  is 
contrasted,  in  all  but  sweetness  of  versification,  with  the  noble 
animation  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope."  But  to  Mr.  Scott,  a 
succession  of  his  wonted  images  and  heroes  seems  indispensable 
to  success.  The  only  attempt  made  to  forsake  this  track  for 
a  foreign  tour,  has  been  too  little  flattering  to  be  speedily 
renewed.  "We  presume  there  are  few  readers  who  would  not 
rather  peruse  for  the  thousandth  time,  the  description  of  Loch 
Ners,  and  Loch  Katrine,  and  Teviot,  and  Tweed  —  than  fol- 
low our  minstrel  through  his  Spencer-stanza  and  his  Spanish 
"  Vision."  He  is  there  no  longer  the  mighty  magician,  but  the 
magician  deprived  of  his  wand. 

The  poem  of  Eokeby  abounds  with  delineations  of  pictur- 
esque and  awful  scenery.  Some  of  these  are  merely  sketched 
in  a  bold  outline,  others  are  filled  up  with  circumstantial 
minuteness.  Among  the  most  attractive  passages  is  the  one  at 
the  beginning  of  the  work.  That  which  describes  the  firing 
of  Kokeby  Castle  would  have  excited  more  of  our  admiration, 
but  for  an  unlucky  association  with  the  burning  of  Old  Drury, 
in  a  recent  laughable  volume.  The  most  elaborate  in  detail 
but  worst  in  taste,  of  any  of  these  specimens,  is  that  of  the 
fourteenth  stanza  of  the  second  canto,  where  near  forty  lines 
are  employed  in  recounting  the  process  of  climbing  a  moun- 
tain. Mr.  Collins  —  a  name  which  no  lover  of  poetry  can  pro- 
is 


294  POEMS   AM)    MISCELLANIES. 

nounce  without  reverence  —  in  giving  his  personification  of 
Danger,  has  thrown  him 

"  On  the  ridgy  steep 
Of  some  loose,  hanging  rock,  to  sleep." 

We  believe  there  are  few  readers  who  do  not  feel  that  the 
simple  sublimity  of  this  single  image,  would  only  have  been 
weakened  by  any  effort  to  extend  or  multiply  its  power. 

Mr.  Scott  has  seemed  determined  to  compensate  for  amplify- 
ing on  trivial  events  in  the  first  of  his  poem  by  the  little  space 
he  allots  to  important  ones,  at  the  last.  To  nothing  indeed  but 
the  hurry  incident  to  an  author,  whose  printer  has  completed 
one  half  of  the  work  before  his  employer  has  composed  the 
other,  can  we  impute  the  confusion  arising  from  events  which 
crowd  so  unceremoniously  on  each  other,  and  on  the  reader, 
that  each  following  page  jostles  the  preceding  one  from  his 
memory.  We  marvel  much  at  this  in  an  author  whom  rumor 
has  represented 

"  As  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  at  ease." 

One  who,  pressed  neither  by  want  nor  sorrow,  must  have 
described  the  spoiled  and  wayward  child  of  fancy,  from  obser- 
vation rather  than  experience.  The  exquisite  portrait  of  Wil- 
frid had  been  a  general  likeness  in  those  days  which  drove 
Gray  to  disgust,  and  Chatterton  to  despair.  But  Mr.  Scott's 
popularity  is  not  only  gratifying,  but  profitable.  His  laurels 


ROKEBY.  295 

are  of  gold.  No  wavering  Parnassian  garland,  but  solid  Brit- 
ish metal.  By  such  a  writer,  the  goad  of  necessity  can  be  no 
cause  of  inaccuracy  or  haste.  Yet  to  haste  alone  can  we 
impute  many  instances  of  obscurity  in  this  volume,  which  we 
have  not  time  to  enumerate.  One,  indeed,  is  so  remarkable, 
that  it  appears  the  effect  of  design.  Who  is  the  real  cause  of 
Mortham's  wrongs,  we  are  never  informed ;  and  though  proba- 
bilities concur  to  fix  the  charge  on  Wycliffe,  yet  it  is  by  no 
means  clearly  ascertained. 

The  same  passion  for  obscurity  appears  in  the  history  of 
Redmond ;  and  has  in  one  instance  betrayed  the  author  into 
great  improbability.  Why  the  grandfather  should  have  sent 
this  child  to  England,  to  his  relations,  without  disclosing  his 
relationship ;  why  so  earnestly  entreat  for  him  protection,  on 
the  comparatively  feeble  claims  of  gratitude  and  hospitality, 
and  omit  the  resistless  ones  of  nature  and  blood,  appears 
to  us  wholly  unaccountable.  But  we  recollect  that  it  is 
poetic  ground  on  which  we  tread,  and  that  poetry  is  the  prov- 
ince of  fancy  rather  than  fact.  The  same  allowance  we  regret 
cannot  be  made  for  a  most  revolting  passage  at  the  conclusion. 
The  martyr  Wilfrid . —  the  most  original,  tender,  and  really  mag- 
nanimous character  in  the  piece,  who  lived  to  promote  the 
happiness  of  Matilda,  and  died  to  secure  it  —  the  interesting 
Wilfrid  has  no  sooner  breathed  his  last,  but  we  are  shocked 
by  an  instantaneous  transition  to  the  merry-making  of  nuptial 
festivities.  The  surviving  rival  avails  himself  of  the  fortunate 
moment ; 


296  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

"  Steps  in  with  his  receipt  for  making  smiles, 
And  blanching  sables  into  bridal  bloom." 

This  may  be  very  natural  in  Redmond,  but  suits  ill  with 
the  "  soft "  and  "  pensive  "  Matilda.  The  Roman  ladies,  though 
made  of  sterner  stuff,  consecrated  a  year  of  mourning  to 
Brutus,  to  whom  they  were  bound  by  no  tie  but  the  general 
one  of  grateful  patriotism.  Surely,  to  the  memory  of  a  lover, 
a  kinsman,  a  friend  from  infancy,  something  more  than  two 
little  months  might  have  been  allowed ;  even  apart  from  the 
important  considerations  of  his  having  rescued  her  life,  and  lost 
his  own  from  her  unconscionable  command,  by  wounds  received 
in  the  assistance  of  her  favorite !  It  had  been  sufficient  to 
have  left  us  looking  forward  to  the  union  of  Redmond  and 
Matilda.  Such  a  termination  had  been  more  soothing  to  the 
reader,  more  honorable  to  the  feelings  of  the  parties,  and  we 
trust  more  conformable  to  human  nature.  Instead  of  that  we 
are  summarily  told, 

"  This  chanced  upon  a  summer  morn, 
When  yellow  waned  the  ripened  corn. 
But  when  brown  August  o'er  the  land 
Called  forth  the  reaper's  busy  hand, 
'Twas  then  the  maid  of  Rokeby  gave 
Her  plighted  faith  to  Redmond  brave." 

We  can  only,  in  charity  to  Mr.  Scott,  attribute,  as  before, 
this  instance  of  hurry  to  the  demands  of  his  printer,  which 
would  not  allow  time  for  the  obsequies  of  Wilfrid ;  and  the 


ROKEBY.  297 

public  impatience  may  thus  share  with  him  the  censure  of 
leaving  his  heroine  deficient  in  the  decencies  of  common 
feeling. 

We  have  thus  hazarded  some  desultory  observations  on  Mr. 
Scott's  poem.     The  proof  of  their  justice  or  injustice  is  in  the 
hands  of  every  one.     If  it  should  seem  that  we  have  been 
more  studious  of  his  blemishes  than  beauties,  it  was  not  because 
the  latter  are  not  seen,  but  because  they  are  seen  too  plainly. 
The  beauties  of  this  writer's  poetry  are  of  the  most  striking  and 
dazzling  kind ;  and  their  glare  extends  over  his  defects.     In 
literature,  as  in  life,  we  find  the  more  showy  and  ostentatious 
characters  attract  general  admiration,  before  refined  and  retired 
ones.     The  success  that  has  attended  this  writer  is  as  seductive 
as  the   nature  of  his  poetry ;   and  both,  we  apprehend,  are  • 
injurious  to  the  interests  of  pure  taste  and  classical  verse,  espe- 
cially in   this  country.     In   Great  Britain  there  are   enough 
established  models  of  the  noblest  form  of  poetry  to  oppose  any 
recent  peculiarities  of  the  Muse.     And  while  it  is  there  recol- 
lected that  the  poems  of  Waller  were  universally  read,  while 
those  of  Milton  were  as  universally  neglected ;  and  the  dramas 
of  Shakspeare   superseded  by  the  ribaldry  of  Settle  and  his 
contemporaries  ;  present  popularity  will  scarcely  be  considered 
an  infallible  criterion  of  permanent  renown.     But  in  a  nation 
like  our  own,  where  the  public  taste  is  yet  immatured ;  and 
destined,  as  we  probably  are  —  some  croakings  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding  —  to  produce  one  day,  poems  which  shall  be 


298  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

candidates  for  endurance,  it  is  of  no  small  consequence  that 
the  eyes  of  our  future  bards  should  not  be  attracted  by 
any  "  Cynthias  of  the  minute,"  any  wandering  stars  of  litera- 
ture, but  rather  fix  on  those  permanent  luminaries  which, 
though  alas  !  suns  to  other  worlds,  have  yet  beamed  on  us  some 
portion  of  their  brightness.  Our  countrymen  will  be  sensible 
that  if  respectable  critics,  as  Dr.  Beattie,  Mrs.  Montagu,  Lord 
Lyttleton,  &c.,  apprehended  at  the  close  of  the  last  century, 
there  were  indications  of  the  English  language  being  on  the 
decline,  —  the  publication  of  a  series  of  poems  which  may  tend 
to  accelerate  that  event,  is  no  inconsiderable  evil.  We  shall 
remember  that  to  extend  the  empire  of  this  admirable  lan- 
guage, was  one  of  the  warmest  wishes  of  patriots  and  scholars, 
in  the  scheme  of  our  colonization.  If  this  language  is  to  know 
corruption  or  change,  let  it  at  least  be  in  favor  of  the  sonorous 
dignity  of  the  Greek,  the  polished  elegance  of  the  Latin  —  the 
lively  French,  or  melodious  Italian ;  —  not  for  the  mutterings 
of  Highland  nurses,  and  the  jargon  of  Border  outlaws.  If  our 
poets  should  not  dare  delineate  a  cavalier  on  the  old  plan  of 
being  as  much  sans  reproche  as  sans  peur,  but  must  comply  with 
the  reigning  taste  for  heroes  in  whom  boldness  supplies  the 
want  of  every  other  qualification ;  there  is  at  least  no  necessity 
of  recurring  to  Scotch  marauders,  equally  ignorant  and  fero- 
cious with  our  own  aboriginals,  whilst  we  have  a  model  so 
conveniently  near  us. 


ROKEBY.  299 

The  length  to  which  these  remarks  have  been  protracted, 
will  be  pardoned  by  those  whose  sympathies  are  alive  to  the 
importance  of  the  subject ;  who  wish  well  to  society  in  general 
—  to  their  own  country  in  particular  —  and  consider  the  inter- 
ests of  both  as  materially  affected  by  the  state  of  moral  feeling 
and  polite  literature. 


300  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  * 

ME.  MONTGOMERY  appears  before  the  public  with  many 
claims  on  our  interest  and  sympathy.  A  tendency  to  melan- 
choly, predominant  in  his  writings,  and,  perhaps,  the  original 
characteristic  of  his  genius,  has  been  deepened  and  rendered 
permanent  by  the  sufferings  of  his  life.  In  common  with 
his  great  predecessor  in  sacred  epic,  the  illustrious  Milton,  his 
ingenuous  discussion  of  political  and  religious  subjects,  has 
exposed  him  to  rigorous  persecution ;  and  much  is  it  to  be 
deplored  that  two  individuals  of  the  purest  morals,  the  most 
exalted  piety,  and  the  most  disinterested  patriotism,  should 
thus  have 


•  Fallen  on  evil  days, 


On  evil  tongues !" 

With  these  impressions  we  can  never  open  a  volume  from 
this  writer  with  indifference,  and  if  these  may  be  supposed  to 
interfere  with  our  singleness  of  judgment,  we  must  admit  the 

*  The  World  before  the  Flood,  a  Poem  in  ten  Cantos ;  with  other  occasional  Pieces.  By  James 
Montgomery. 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  301 

fact.  Our  respect  for  the  man  certainly  mingles  with  our  esti- 
mation of  the  author,  and  we  class  this  among  those  wholesome 
prejudices  which  none  but  stoics  in  criticism  would  disallow. 
"We  are  far  from  approving  that  parade  of  ideal  misery  and 
elegant  distress,  with  which  some  writers  appear  before  the 
public.  This  may  be  considered  a  sort  of  stage  effect,  and  like 
that,  has  seldom  any  power  in  the  pathetic.  The  imagination 
only  is  addressed,  and  it  is  the  imagination  only  that  answers. 
The  heart  preserves  a  becoming  silence.  The  querulous  fasti- 
diousness of  Gray,  and  the  caustic  misanthropy  of  Lord  Byron, 
may  not  always  command  our  sympathy;  but  the  loss  of  health, 
and  friends,  and  liberty,  are  among  those  awful,  actual  evils,  at 
which  the  sternest  shudder,  and  the  most  obdurate  relent. 

The  reader  of  a  poem  like  the  one  now  under  consideration, 
owes  it  both  to  himself  and  his  author,  to  bring  to  its  perusal 
suitable  and  distinct  ideas  of  the  kind  of  excellence  he  expects. 
Simple  and  natural  as  is  this  requisition,  we  fear  a  compliance 
with  it  is  by  no  means  universal.  How  many  rash  judgments 
might  this  mental  preparation  have  averted  ?  How  much  of 
the  unpopularity  of  certain  productions  at  particular  periods, 
may  be  traced  to  a  disregard  of  this  rule  ?  Some  of  the  warm- 
est admirers  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope"  have  been  offended 
with  the  "  Gertrude,"  for  not  answering  the  expectations  which 
the  very  title  might  have  informed  them  could  not  be  gratified 
without  every  sacrifice  of  truth  and  nature.  Instead  of  con- 
sidering the  work  as  a  new  and  beautiful  proof  of  its  writer's 


302  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

versatility  of  talent,  they  have  summarily  professed  themselves 
disappointed  !  In  like  manner,  those  who  paid  willing  homage 
to  the  regular  beauties  of  Southey's  "  Madoc,"  have  been  fright- 
ened from  their  allegiance  by  the  erratic  wonders  of  "Thalaba," 
and  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama. "  "We  reiterate,  therefore,  our 
former  injunction — that  no  reader  should  content  himself  with 
a  vague  indefinite  expectation  of  excellence,  he  knows  not  how 
or  what,  but  rather  endeavor  to  form  accurate  anticipations  of 
the  species  of  entertainment  which  is  suited  to  the  nature  of 
the  subject  proposed.  As  this  particular  species,  when  ascer- 
tained, shall  be  more  or  less  agreeable  to  his  previous  tastes,  he 
can  persevere  or  not,  at  his  pleasure ;  but  at  any  rate,  his  can- 
dor will  not  cast  all  the  blame  on  the  writer,  which  is  equally 
to  be  shared  with  the  reader.  This  duty,  a  paramount  one  to 
all  authors,  ought  more  especially  to  be  observed  towards  such 
as  write  on  themes  not  analogous  to  the  popular  literature  of 
the  day.  Whoever  should  come  with  a  fancy  stored  only  from 
the  romances  of  the  Troubadours,  or  a  memory  filled  from  the 
more  recent  minstrelsy  of  Mr.  Scott,  with  visions  of  barons  and 
squires,  and  camps  and  tournaments,  and  the  long  et  ccdem  of 
chivalric  garniture,  will  find  nothing  of  all  this  in  the  present 
production. 

If  such  and  so  exclusive  be  his  ideas,  we  would  recommend 
a  total  abstinence ;  as  his  sensations  would  else  resemble,  pro- 
bably, those  of  a  poor  Neapolitan,  who  with  all  his  poetical 
notions  associated  with  the  ballads  of  his  native  improvisatori, 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  303 

should  be  sentenced,  by  way  of  penance,  to  compass  the  pages 
of  «  Paradise  Lost." 

There  are  those,  however,  who  entertain  more  liberal  con- 
ceptions respecting  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  empire  of 
poetry ;  and  such  we  may  invite  to  the  perusal  of  this  poem. 
Its  scene  is  principally  laid  at  an  imaginary  spot  eastward  of 
Eden,  inhabited  by  the  younger  and  more  virtuous  descendants 
of  Adam ;  and  the  time  chosen  for  its  commencement  is  the 
period  when  their  elder  brethren,  the  giant  posterity  of  Cain, 
are  about  invading  this  little  tract,  which  is  represented  as  the 
only  remaining  residence  of  faith  and  freedom,  even  in  those 
early  times.  The  detail  of  this  invasion  forms  the  subject  of 
the  poem,  intermixed  with  episodes,  describing  the  race  of 
giants,  the  characters  of  their  monarch  and  his  wizard 
instructor,  the  several  events  of  scripture  history  anterior  to 
that  time,  and  those  future  dispensations  which  formed  the 
vision  of  inspired  prophecy.  To  give  a  particular  interest  to 
these  events,  an  individual  is  introduced,  who  becomes  the 
principal  object  of  our  sympathy  and  solicitude,  during  the 
whole  action.  Javan,  a  lover  and  a  minstrel,  ambitious  of 
renown,  becomes  a  fugitive  from  the  place,  and  an  apostate 
from  the  religion  of  his  ancestors. 

»  He  fled  and  sojourned  in  the  land  of  Cain. 


There,  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Jubal's  lyre, 
Instinctive  genius  caught  the  ethereal  fire ; 
And  soon,  with  sweetly  modulating  skill, 
He  learned  to  wind  the  passions  at  hia  will ; 


304  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

To  rule  the  chords  with  such  mysterious  art, 
They  seemed  the  life-strings  of  the  hearer's  heart ! 
Then  glory's  opening  field  he  proudly  trod, 
Forsook  the  -worship  and  the  ways  of  God. 
Round  the  vain  world  pursued  the  phantom  Fame, 
And  cast  away  his  birthright  for  a  name. 

Yet  no  delight  the  minstrel's  bosom  knew, 

None  save  the  tones  that  from  his  harp  he  drew, 
And  the  warm  visions  of  a  wayward  mind, 
Whose  transient  splendor  left  a  gloom  behind, 
Frail  as  the  clouds  of  sunset,  and  as  fair, 
Pageants  of  light  resolving  into  air. 

The  fame  he  followed  and  the  fame  he  found, 

Healed  not  his  heart's  immedicable  wound ; 

Admired,  applauded,  crowned,  where'er  he  roved, 

The  bard  was  homeless,  friendless,  unbeloved ; 

All  else  that  breathed  below  the  circling  sky 

"Were  linked  to  life  by  some  endearing  tie ; 

He  only,  like  the  ocean  weed  uptorn, 

And  loose  along  the  world  of  waters  borne, 

Was  cast  companionless  from  wave  to  wave 

On  life's  rough  sea and  there  was  none  to  save." 

After  an  absence  of  ten  years,  recoiling  at  the  thought  of 
assisting  the  arms  of  the  giants  against  the  land  of  his  nativity, 
he  yields  to  the  impulses  of  remorse  and  affection,  and  returns 
to  Eden.  He  obtains  an  interview  with  Zillah,  who  was  the 
object  of  his  early  passion  ;  and  his  reception  by  her  ven- 
erable father,  the  prophet  Enoch,  is  not  less  affecting,  from  its 
recalling  to  our  minds  the  beautiful  apologue  of  the  repentant 
prodigal.  We  are  too  sensible  how  much  the  effect  of  scenes 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  305 

of  emotion  depends  on   their  being  taken  in  connexion  with 
the  rest  of  the  piece,  to  mar  it  by  quotation. 

Perhaps  we  are  singular ;  but  the  following  simple  coup- 
lets have  to  us  something  far  more  touching  than  is  contained 
in  many  recent  elaborate  descriptions  of  female  loveliness. 
The  poet  refers  to  the  loneliness  of  the  father  of  mankind, 
until  the  Almighty,  who  "  willed  not  man  to  dwell  alone," 

"  Created  woman  with  a  smile  of  grace, 
And  left  the  smile  that  made  Tier  on  her  face. 
The  patriarch's  eyelids  opened  on  his  bride, 
The  morn  of  beauty  risen  from  his  side !" 

And  again,  when  Javan  is  contemplating  Zillah,  after  his 
long  exile  — 

"  Time  had  but  touched  her  form  to  finer  grace, 
Years  had  but  shed  their  favors  on  her  face, 
While  secret  love,  and  unregarded  truth, 
Like  cold  clear  dew  upon  the  rose  of  youth, 
Gave  to  the  springing  flower  a  chastened  bloom, 
And  shut  from  rifling  winds  its  coy  perfume." 

The  ensuing  extract  displays  Mr.  M.'s  descriptive  talents  on  a 
different  subject  —  that  of  Cain  under  the  malediction: 


Grim  before  him  lay 


Crouched  like  a  lion  watching  for  his  prey, 
With  blood-red  eye  of  fascinating  fire 
Fixed,  like  the  gazing  serpent,  on  the  lyre, 
An  awful  form  that  through  the  gloom  appeared, 
Half  brute,  half  human  ;  whose  terrific  beard 


306  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 


And  hoary  flakes  of  long  dishevelled  hair, 

Like  eagle's  plumage,  ruffled  by  the  air, 

Veiled  a  sad  wreck  of  grandeur  and  of  grace, 

Limbs  torn  and  wounded,  a  majestic  face, 

Deep  ploughed  by  time,  and  ghastly  pale,  with  woes 

That  goaded  till  remorse  to  madness  rose  ; 

Haunted  by  phantoms,  he  had  fled  his  home, 

With  savage  beasts  in  solitude  to  roam ; 

Wild  as  the  waves,  and  wandering  as  the  wind, 

No  art  could  tame  him,  and  no  chains  could  bind ; 

Already  seven  disastrous  years  had  shed 

Mildew  and  blast  on  his  unsheltered  head ; 

His  brain  was  smitten  by  the  sun  at  noon, 

His  heart  was  withered  by  the  cold  night  moon." 

He  is  introduced  to  elicit  the  musical  powers  of  Javan,  by 
whose  melody  he  is  gradually  soothed  into  peace. 

"  The  lyre  of  Jubal,  with  divinest  art, 

Repelled  the  demon,  and  revived  his  heart. 

Thus  song,  the  breath  of  heaven,  had  power  to  bind, 

In  chains  of  harmony,  the  mightiest  mind  ; 

Thus  music's  empire  in  the  soul  began, 

The  first  born  poet  ruled  the  first  born  man." 

"We  have  mentioned  this  writer  as  inclined  to  melancholy. 
It  is,  however,  by  no  means  a  moody  melancholy,  but  has  more 
of  tenderness  than  gloom.  The  lines  on  the  burial-place  of 
the  patriarchs  will  illustrate  our  meaning. 

"  A  scene  sequestered  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
The  loneliest  nook  of  all  that  lonely  glen, 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  307 

With  walks  between  by  friends  and  kindred  trod, 

Who  dressed  with  duteous  hands  each  hallowed  sod  ; 

No  sculptured  monument  was  taught  to  breathe 

His  praises  whom  the  worm  devoured  beneath ; 

The  high,  the  low,  the  mighty,  and  the  fair, 

Equal  in  death,  were  undistinguished  there ; 

Yet  not  a  hillock  mouldered  near  that  spot, 

By  one  dishonored,  or  by  all  forgot ; 

To  some  warm  heart  the  poorest  dust  was  dear, 

From  some  kind  eye  the  meanest  claimed  a  tear ; 

And  oft  the  living  by  affection  led, 

Were  wont  to  walk  in  spirit  with  their  dead  ; 

Where  no  dark  cypress  cast  a  doleful  gloom, 

No  blighting  yew  shed  poison  o'er  the  tomb, 

But  white  and  red  with  intermingling  flowers, 

The  graves  looked  beautiful  in  sun  and  showers, 

Green  myrtles  fenced  it,  and  beyond  their  bound 

Ran  the  clear  rill  with  ever  murmuring  sound ; 

'Twas  not  a  scene  for  grief  to  nourish  care, 

It  breathed  of  hope,  and  moved  the  heart  to  prayer." 

We  could  with  pleasure  indulge  ourselves  farther,  but  our 
limits  confine  us,  at  present,  to  two  more  selections.  The  first 
is  the  energetic  expression  of  passion,  and  furnishes  an  appro- 
priate example  of  the  distinction  first  made  by  Lord  Kaimes, 
between  the  actual  imitation  of  the  passions,  and  the  mere 
description  of  them. 


"  A  reprobate  by  birth, 

To  heaven  rebellious,  unallied  on  earth, 
Whither,  O  whither  shall  the  outcast  flee  ? 
There  is  no  home,  no  peace,  no  hope  for  me. 


308  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

I  hate  the  worldling's  vanity  and  noise, 

I  have  no  fellow-feeling  in  his  joys ; 

The  saint's  serener  bliss  I  cannot  share, 

My  soul,  alas  !  hath  no  communion  there. 

This  is  the  portion  of  my  cup  below, 

Silent,  unmingled,  solitary  woe ; 

To  bear  from  clime  to  clime  the  curse  of  Cain, 

Sin  with  remorse,  yet  find  repentance  vain  ; 

And  cling  in  blank  despair,  from  breath  to  breath, 

To  nought  in  life,  except  the  fear  of  death." 

The  sentiments  of  the  next  passage  must  meet  a  powerful 
echo  from  every  voice,  were  it  only  from  association  with  exist- 
ing circumstances. 

"  His  heart  exulting  whispered  '  All  is  mine,' 
And  heard  a  voice  from  all  things  answer  '  Thine.' 
Such  was  the  matchless  chief  whose  name  of  yore 
Filled  the  wide  world  —  his  name  is  known  no  more  ; 
O  that  forever  from  the  rolls  of  fame 
Like  his  had  perished  every  conqueror's  name  ! 
Then  had  mankind  been  spared,  in  after  times, 
Their  greatest  sufferings  and  their  greatest  crimes. 
The  hero  scourges  not  his  age  alone, 
His  curse  to  late  posterity  is  known  5 
He  slays  his  thousands  with  his  living  breath, 
His  tens  of  thousands  by  his  fame  in  death. 
Achilles  quenched  not  all  his  wrath  on  Greece, 
Through  Homer's  song  its  miseries  never  cease ; 
Like  Phoebus'  shafts,  the  bright  contagion  brings 
Plagues  on  the  people  for  the  feuds  of  kings. 
'Twas  not  in  vain  the  son  of  Philip  sighed 
For  worlds  to  conquer ;  o'er  the  western  tide, 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  309 

His  spirit,  in  the  Spaniard's  form,  o'erthrew 
Realms  that  the  Macedonian  never  knew. 
The  steel  of  Brutus  struck  not  Csesar  dead ; 
Czesar  in  other  lands  hath  reared  his  head, 
And  fought,  of  friends  and  foes,  on  many  a  plain, 
His  millions  captured,  fugitive,  and  slain ; 
Yet  seldom  suffered,  where  his  country  died, 
A  Roman  vengeance  for  the  parricide." 

Sufficient  has  now  been  quoted  to  enable  the  reader  to 
judge  of  the  nature  and  versification  of  this  poem.  The  pas- 
sages have  been  taken  nearly  at  random,  and  are  not  superior 
to  many  others  that  offered  themselves  to  our  attention ; 
particularly  those  relating  to  the  battle  between  these  antedi- 
luvian warriors  —  the  giant  king  —  the  translation  of  Enoch  — 
and  the  death  and  character  of  the  first  man.  To  those  whose 
interest  may  have  been  excited  by  this  imperfect  sketch,  we  add 
only,  that  the  work  concludes  with  the  expulsion  of  the  giants, 
and  the  union  of  Javan  with  Zillah. 

Of  the  minor  pieces  in  this  volume,  they  are,  with  few  excep- 
tions, worthy  of  the  author  of  « The  Mole  Hill,"  and  « The 
Common  Lot,"  two  of  the  most  original  poems,  for  their  kind, 
to  be  found  in  the  compass  of  cotemporary  literature.  The 
moral  poetry  of  Mr.  Montgomery  is,  indeed,  always  of  the 
noblest  kind.  He  presents  us  with  no  train  of  truisms  —  no 
frigid  dissertations  on  abstract  fitness  —  none  of  the  common- 
places of  ethics ;  but  has  the  merit  of  enlivening  our  attention 
to  trite  truths  and  familiar  rules  of  conduct,  by  throwing  round 


310  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

them  the  lights  of  a  rich  imagination  through  the  softening 
medium  of  a  feeling  heart.  In  this  respect  he  reminds  us  of 
the  writings  of  Chateaubriand,  making  due  allowance  for  the 
superiority  of  the  latter  in  that  onction  which  is  an  advantage 
the  French  language  possesses  over  our  own. 

Notwithstanding  the  satisfaction  we  have  derived  from  the 
examination  of  this  production,  we  shall  not  be  surprised  if  it 
should  not  attain  immediate  or  general  popularity.  The  dic- 
tion may  not  always,  perhaps,  be  found  sufficiently  dignified ; 
and  the  writer  may  have  been  led  into  this  error  by  a  laudable 
desire,  pushed  to  an  extreme,  of  imitating  the  simplicity  of  the 
sacred  writings.  This,  however,  is  not  frequent ;  and  there  are 
abundantly  more  instances  where  vigor  of  thought  has  been 
accompanied  with  correspondent  force  of  expression.  From 
the  evils  incidental  to  the  nature  of  the  subject,  the  author  has 
more  to  apprehend ;  but  these  he  shares  only  in  common 
with  all  his  predecessors  who  drew  their  materials  from  the 
scriptures,  Milton  and  Klopstock  not  excepted.  The  golden 
compasses  with  which  the  Creator  is  described  by  the  former 
as  measuring  the  universe,  excited  the  surprise  of  Gibbon,*  who 
calls  it  "  puerile  in  him,  though  such  an  image  had  been  truly 
sublime  in  Homer.  Our  philosophical  ideas  of  the  deity  are 
injurious  to  the  poet.  The  same  attributes  debase  our  divinity 
which  would  have  exalted  the  Jupiter  of  the  Greeks.  The 
sublime  genius  of  Milton  was  cramped  by  the  system  of  our 

*  Essai  sur  les  Belles  Lettres. 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  311 

religion,  and  never  appeared  to  so  great  an  advantage  as  when 
he  shook  it  a  little  off;  while,  on  the  contrary,  Propertius,  a 
cold  and  insipid  declaimer,  owes  all  his  reputation  to  the  agree- 
able pictures  of  his  mythology."  This  critic  may,  indeed,  justly 
be  considered  as  no  unprejudiced  witness,  since  his  infidelity  may 
have  influenced  his  taste ;  but  similar  opinions  are  entertained 
by  many  whose  intellectual  integrity  is  liable  to  no  suspicion. 
But,  waiving  all  discussion  of  a  topic  which  would  be  sufficient 
of  itself  to  fill  an  article  far  less  circumscribed  than  the  present, 
another  cause  of  fear  for  the  success  of  this  poem  is  in  its 
length.  It  has  been  observed  with  some  plausibility  that  the 
age  of  epics  has  past  —  a  remark  equally  applicable  to  all  long 
poems,  whatever  be  their  nature,  in  an  age  when  literary  mer- 
chandise is  judged  by  the  weight,  and  the  value  of  a  book  is 
inversely  as  its  matter.  Former  critics  would  deny  the  claim 
of  a  rhymer  to  the  title  of  poet,  because  he  had  not  written 
enough.  *  At  present,  a  similar  conclusion  is  drawn  from 
premises  precisely  the  reverse,  and  a  man  shall  cease  to  be 
applauded  as  a  poet  if  he  have  written  too  much.  Alas  for  the 
mutability  of  human  tastes !  On  the  other  hand,  a  writer  may 
derive  consolation  from  these  fluctuations,  since  they  afford 
ground  for  probable  calculation,  that  if  the  age  of  epics  have 
gone  by,  it  has  not  gone  forever ;  the  very  existence  of  oppo- 
site opinions  in  ourselves,  is  an  argument  in  favor  of  the  revival 
of  other  ones  in  the  generation  that  succeeds  us  —  a  reflection 

*  Cumberland,  &c.,  on  Gray. 


312  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

as  well  calculated  to  moderate  the  exultation  of  the  popular,  as 
to  diminish  the  despondence  of  the  unsuccessful.  After  an  age 
of  bigots,  said  Ganganelli,  comes  an  age  of  freethinkers;  and  so 
long  as  the  world  we  inhabit  is  proverbially  a  changing  world, 
the  historian  of  the  human  mind  may  trace  alike  on  all  subjects 
continual  alternation. 

We  cannot  better  conclude  this  article  than  with  the  lines 
on  the  power  of  poetry,  in  which  Mr.  Montgomery  has  so  well 
asserted  the  dignity  of  his  art. 

"  There  is  a  living  spirit  in  the  lyre, 

A  breath  of  music,  and  a  soul  of  fire ; 

It  speaks  a  language  to  the  world  unknown, 

It  speaks  that  language  to  the  bard  alone ; 

While  warbled  symphonies  entrance  his  ears, 

That  spirit's  voice  in  every  tone  he  hears ; 

'Tis  his  the  mystic  meaning  to  rehearse, 

To  utter  oracles  in  glowing  verse, 

Heroic  themes  from  age  to  age  prolong, 

And  make  the  dead  in  nature  live  in  song. 

Though  graven  rocks  the  warrior's  deeds  proclaim, 

And  mountains  hewn  to  statues  wear  his  name ; 

Though  shrined  in  adamant  his  relics  lie 

Beneath  a  pyramid  that  scales  the  sky ; 

All  that  the  eye  admires  shall  pass  away ; 

All  that  the  hand  hath  fashioned  shall  decay ; 

The  mouldering  rocks  the  hero's  hope  shall  fail, 

Earthquakes  shall  heave  the  mountains  to  the  vale, 

The  shrine  of  adamant  betray  its  trust, 

And  the  proud  pyramid  resolve  to  dust ; 


MONTGOMERY'S  POEMS.  313 

The  lyre  alone  immortal  fame  secures, 
For  song  alone  through  nature's  change  endures ; 
Transfused  like  life,  from  breast  to  breast  it  glows, 
From  sire  to  son  by  sure  succession  flows ; 
Speeds  its  unceasing  flight  from  clime  to  clime, 
Outstripping  death  upon  the  wings  of  time." 


314  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 


WAVEKLY.* 

MR.  OLDSCHOOL  : — 

OF  those  fashionable  articles  of  modern  manufacture, 
yclep'd  Reviews,  there  are  three  kinds  in  demand.  The  first, 
which  is  vended  chiefly  by  those  wholesale  dealers,  the  North 
Britons,  has  the  name  of  some  author,  indeed,  at  the  head  of 
the  piece,  but  nothing  more ;  for  both  warp  and  woof  are  exclu- 
sively their  own.  To  drop  our  homespun  metaphor,  the  pro- 
duction of  this  class  of  critics  may  be  called  anything  more 
properly  than  reviews.  The  next  sort  are  from  those  who 
justify  their  sentence  of  acquittal  or  condemnation,  by  evidence 
extracted  from  the  work  itself,  and  thus  judge  the  writer  out 
of  his  own  mouth ;  and  the  last  by  those  who,  relying  on  the 
notoriety  of  their  subject,  content  themselves  with  a  general 
discussion  of  its  merits,  without  selecting  any  particular  spec- 
imens. 

Of  these  varieties,  the  second  appears,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  equitable ;  and  especially  where  a  work  is  little  known, 

*  Waverly:  or, 'tis  Sixty  Years  since.     A  Novel.    Attributed  to  Walter  Scott. 


WAYERLT.  315 

may  be  instrumental,  by  means  of  its  extracts,  in  attracting 
toward  it  the  attention  it  deserves.  But  when  public  curiosity 
has  already  anticipated  the  recommendation  of  the  reviewer, 
this  method  is  no  longer  obligatory,  and  may  become  officious. 
This  is  emphatically  true  in  the  instance  before  us,  since  a 
novel  attributed  to  Mr.  Scott  must  have  been  in  the  hands  of 
every  one,  and  will  exonerate  us  from  the  imputation  of  disre- 
spect in  omitting  to  exhaust  time  and  patience  in  quoting  what 
every  one  previously  know^s  —  a  labor  as  superfluous  as  the 
form  of  introduction  after  the  parties  have  become  familiar. 

It  is  one  of  the  many  incongruities  of  our  nature,  which 
we  leave  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  analysis  of  the  metaphy- 
sician, that  the  very  scenes  which  most  agonize  us,  whether  on 
the  stage  or  in  the  closet,  are  those  over  which  we  hang  with 
the  highest  ecstacy  of  interest  and  delight,  like  the  terrible 
fascination  ascribed  to  the  serpent,  which  fastens,  while  it  con- 
vulses its  object.  Of  such  a  nature  were  the  scenes  exhibited 
at  the  memorable  era  to  which  these  pages  refer ;  and  if  they 
might  be  relied  on  as  an  impartial  and  accurate  copy  of  those 
times,  they  would  be  an  acceptable  acquisition  to  the  moral 
antiquarian.  But  of  this  accuracy,  the  only  qualified  witnesses 
—  the  surviving  livers  and  actors  in  those  days,  must  necessa- 
rily be  few,  and  those  few  fast  passing  away ;  so  that,  after  all, 
this  period,  eventful  and  interesting  as  it  is,  must  submit  to  be 
judged  like  all  others,  not  from  the  dubious  narrative  of  the 
novelist,  but  from  the  less  exceptionable,  though  less  attractive 


316  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

records  of  temporary  journals,  letters  and  memoirs.  Wherever 
these  authorities  are  in  union  with  a  work  of  fiction  it  may 
with  confidence  be  received ;  and  the  reader  of  the  volumes 
under  consideration  will  be  gratified  with  several  such  coinci- 
dences. 

The  Col.  G ,  for  example,  of  our  author,  will  readily  be 

recognized  as  a  faithful  copy  of  a  famous  original,  that  Col.  Gar- 
diner, of  religious  memory,  who  fell  in  battle  against  the  rebels, 
and  whose  remarkable  conversion  from  the  most  sceptical  levi- 
ty, to  the  utmost  austerity  of  faith  and  practice,  has  found  "  an 
honest  chronicler,"  in  Dr.  Doddridge.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland's  character,  at  least  those  features 
of  it  that  are  presented  to  us,  have  a  likeness  to  the  life,  and 
would  answer  with  some  additional  touches  for  William  the 
Third.  That  of  Prince  Charles  Edward,  however,  is  the  most 
conspicuous  for  its  historical  conformity.  His  intrepidity,  his 
elegance,  his  enthusiasm  —  in  a  word,  his  chivalry  —  that  rare 
combination  of  dignity  with  delicacy,  the  hardy  heroism  of  the 
Scottish  chieftain  with  the  courteous  refinement  of  the  French 
cavalier ;  these  were  the  traits  of  that  illustrious,  though  ill- 
fated  adventurer,  and  these  are  carefully  preserved.  That 
irresistible  influence  of  his  personal  deportment,  particularly  in 
winning  to  his  cause  even  the  most  unwilling,  which  is  here 
illustrated  in  the  interview  with  "  Waverly,"  will  recall  to  the 
mind  of  the  reader  the  real  interview,  with  its  similar  effect,  as 
detailed  by  Mr.  Campbell  in  a  note  to  those  lines,  in  which  the 


WAYERLY.  317 

poet  has  discharged  the  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  patriot  and 
immortalized  the  memory  of  Cameron,  of  Lochiel.  The  Baron 
of  Bradwardine  reminds  us  of  a  similar  mixture  of  bravery  and 
pedantry,  to  be  found,  if  we  mistake  not,  in  the  chief  of  the  De 
Lancasters,  in  Cumberland's  novel  under  that  name ;  and  for 
the  sketches  from  lower  life  —  the  faithful  foster-brother  and 
the  cunning  page  —  we  cannot  give  our  author  higher  praise 
than  that  of  successfully  imitating  what  he  proposed  as  his 
model,  the  delineations  of  Miss  Edgeworth,  that  peerless  por- 
trayer  of  Irish  characteristics.  But  his  Scots  are  evidently  his 
chef  tfceuvres.  His  English  personages  are  by  no  means  equally 
fortunate,  and,  perhaps,  one  of  the  least  interesting  individuals 
of  the  work  is  he  who  gives  it  a  name. 

The  Fergus  and  Flora,  the  Highland  Colonel  and  his  sister 
are,  after  all,  the  principal  characters  who  command  a  passionate 
and  continued  interest,  and,  as  was  said  of  Shakspeare's  Queen 
Katharine, "  the  genius  of  the  piece  comes  in  and  goes  out  with 
them."  We  feel  under  high  obligation  to  the  author  for  the 
space  he  has  allotted  and  the  force  he  has  ascribed  to  the  holy, 
undivided,  undying  affection  which  distingiu'shed  this  unfortu- 
nate pair;  so  different  from  the  ordinary  run  of  romances, 
where  no  attachment  is  admitted  but  la  belle  passion,  which  is 
continually  recurred  to  as  the  one  thing  needful,  and  the  sacred 
ties  which  nature  formed  for  us,  are  wholly  superseded  by  those 
we  form  for  ourselves.  Our  author  seems,  indeed,  to  have  had 
a  strange  sort  of  jealousy  lest  the  former  of  these  should  engross 


318  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

too  much  of  regard,  and  is  perpetually  obtruding  disparaging 
insinuations  —  that  the  purity  of  his  public  feeling  was  alloyed 
by  the  intermixture  of  worldly  motives,  (as  whose  is  not  ?)  and 
appears  actuated  by  a  prophetic  boding  that  this  rebel  high- 
lander  would  usurp  that  allegiance  from  the  redoubtable  hero 
of  the  work  which  was  his  high  and  sole  prerogative. 

And  here  we  must  beg  leave  to  enter  our  serious  protest 
against  a  certain  levity  of  manner  which  costs  the  author 
constant  efforts  to  preserve,  and  which  is  not  unfrequently 
overstrained  and  out  of  place.  We  notice  this  with  more  sur- 
prise, as  it  is  contrary  to  his  own  convictions  of  propriety,  as 
expressed  in  regard  to  Flora,  whose  pensiveness  of  mind  he 
naturally  refers  to  her  habitual  expectation  of  political  events, 
"  not  to  be  accomplished  without  bloodshed,  and,  therefore,  not 
to  be  thought  of  with  levity."  Yet,  in  relating  these  same 
events,  is  he  reckless  of  outraging  our  feelings  by  an  assumed 
giddiness  of  style,  (if  we  may  so  term  it,)  difficult  to  describe 
and  impossible  to  participate ;  of  which  a  remakable  instance  is 
afforded  by  a  sudden  transition,  in  which  none  of  his  readers 
will  care  to  follow  him,  from  the  bloody  scaffold  of  the  gallant 
Fergus  to  the  vulgar  balderdash  of  a  highland  hostess. 

Obnoxious  to  the  same  criticism,  is  the  heartlessness  with 
which,  here  as  in  "  Rokeby,"  the  lovers  set  about  the  merry- 
making of  their  own  wedding,  so  speedily  after  the  loss  of  their 
friends.  Few  men,  we  believe,  even  without  any  pretension  to 
the  vaunted  sensibility  of  Waverly,  could  have  indulged  hi 


WAVERLY.  319 

selfish  speculations,  or  pursued  their  plans  of  personal  felicity, 
while  the  life  and  fortunes  of  a  friend,  who  might  have  been  a 
brother,  and  of  another,  "than  brother  nearer,"  remained  in  such 
awful  uncertainty.  In  real  life  such  conduct  would  not  escape 
animadversion,  and  the  writer  whose  vocation  is  to  paint  the 
"  living  manners  as  they  rise,"  should  be  cautious  not  to  violate 
the  decorums  of  those  manners.  On  the  cruel  policy  to  which 
the  chief  of  M'lvor  was  the  victim,  our  author  bestows  some 
deserved  reprehension,  "  but  it  was  the  reasoning  of  those 
times,"  we  are  told,  "  adopted  even  by  brave  and  humane  men 
toward  a  vanquished  enemy ;"  and  he  apparently  congratulates 
himself  that  we  shall  never  again  hear  the  sentiments  or 
witness  the  scenes  that  were  then  general  in  Britain. 

We  are  sorry  to  see  so  little  ground  for  such  gratulations  ; 
since  we  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  similar  "  scenes,"  and 
similar  "sentiments"  toward  more  than  one  of  the  British 
dependencies,  which  were  prevalent  in  that  country  not  quite 
"  sixty  years  since."  In  the  mysterious  appointments  of  provi- 
dence, the  last  of  the  Stuarts,  it  is  true,  have  failed  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  expiated  their  mistakes  by  their  misfor- 
tunes. But  the  sanguinary  penal  code  that  slaughtered  their 
adherents  still  remains  in  all  its  ancient  rigor ;  unmitigated 
unless  by  the  royal  prerogative  of  mercy,  which  has  been  but 
sparingly  exercised  in  cases  of  high  treason.  It  is,  indeed,  mel- 
ancholy that  even  Great  Britain,  which  has  so  long  enjoyed  the 
lights  of  Christianity  and  the  comforts  of  civilization,  should 


320  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

furnish,  in  some  instances,  so  humiliating  a  check  to  our  the- 
ories of  progressive  improvement;  that  the  lot  of  Kilmar- 
nack  and  Balmerino  in  1746,  should  be  that  of  Emmett  and 
Fitzgerald  in  1798,  and  the  fate  of  Wallace  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  I,  had  been  that  of  Washington  under  George  in, 
had  the  fortune  of  the  war  been  reversed,  and  the  conqueror 
become  a  captive. 

We  disclaim  any  special  animosity  toward  England,  and 
respect  what  is  really  respectable  in  that  nation,  as  much  as 
any  one,  but  as  one  impression  only  has  generally  circulated,  it 
may  not  be  without  use  to  have  the  reverse  of  the  medal  exhi- 
bited occasionally ;  and  the  rather,  as  it  comes,  not  from  the 
suspicious  source  of  a  Jacobin  journalist,  or  member  of  the 
opposition,  but  genuine  from  the  hands  of  a  court-bard  and 
devoted  ministerialist 

The  work  is  dedicated,  in  some  sentences  of  extreme  modes- 
ty, to  the  late  Henry  Mackenzie,  Esq.,  in  whose  praises  we  cor- 
dially acquiesce,  though  we  marvel  much  at  his  being  hailed  by 
the  appellation  of  "the  Scottish  Addison,"  frankly  confessing 
we  know  of  scarce  any  two  writers  of  equal  eminence  who  are 
more  dissimilar.  Mr.  Addison's  writings  are  celebrated  chiefly 
for  their  ease  and  elegance,  and  the  character,  like  that  of  the 
man  himself,  is  refined  but  calm.  Mr.  Mackenzie,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  tender  and  glowing ;  and  his  forte  is  decidedly  in  the 
pathetic.  The  influence  Mr.  Addison  exerted  on  society  was 
through  the  medium  of  the  taste  and  imagination,  rather  than 


WAYERLY.  321 

of  the  feelings,  with  which  he  prudently  forbore  to  intermed- 
dle ;  and  hence  his  manner,  though  correct  and  regular,  is,  in 
order  to  be  appropriate, 

"  Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  low." 

The  reverse  is  the  case  with  Mr.  Mackenzie,  whose  animated 
pathos  is  such  as  often  to  elude  expression,  and  is  indicated 
only  by  the  frequent  breaks  in  his  sentences.  Indeed,  we  know 
no  writer  (except  Sterne,  whom  he  most  resembles  in  all  but 
in  delicacy)  that  abounds  more  in  those  pauses,  u  where  more 
is  meant  than  meets  the  ear." 

It  is  no  reproach  to  Mr.  Addison  that  he  has  not  attained 
the  sublime  or  impassioned,  for  he  never  attempted  it,  and 
there  can  be  no  disgrace  from  not  reaching  a  mark  at  which 
one  has  not  aimed.  If  it  be  true  also  that  he  could  have  pro- 
duced a  "  Julie  de  RouUgne"  or  a  " Man  of  Feeling,"  still  less 
could  the  other  have  been  capable  to  produce  that  revolution 
in  composition  which  Mr.  Addison  had  the  honor  of  effecting. 

The  peculiarities  incidental  to  the  style  of  Mr.  Mackenzie 
are  obviously  such,  as  in  the  hands  of  the  unskillful,  might  be 
easily  perverted  to  excess,  and  liable  to  carricature.  It  is, 
therefore,  unfit  for  general  use,  and  better  suited  to  form  one 
of  the  varieties  of  style,  at  a  period  when  taste  has  acquired  a 
fastidiousness  that  desires  something  new,  than  for  an  earlier 
era,  when  it  needed  only  a  safe  and  simple  model. 


322  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

In  justice,  then,  to  the  respective  claims  of  both  these  writ- 
ers, to  whom  literature  and  morals  have  a  debt  of  gratitude 
"  still  owing,  still  to  owe,"  we  dismiss  them  with  the  award  of 
King  Lear : 

"  The  coronet  part  between  you !" 

In  the  assignment  of  "  Waverly  "  to  Mr.  Scott,  we  are  on 
the  whole  disposed  to  concur,  and  think  there  is  much  inter- 
nal evidence,  in  some  of  the  poetry  especially,  to  countenance 
this  opinion.  Those  who  object  that  they  find  an  occasional 
tediousness  in  many  parts  of  these  volumes,  which  they  never 
experienced  from  the  verses  of  Mr.  Scott,  only  afford  another 
proof  of  the  witchery  of  numbers  in  beguiling  the  attention  to 
passages  which  would  fatigue  it  if  in  prose.  The  scenery  is 
certainly  that  which  the  Muse  of  this  gentleman  most  delights 
to  sketch,  and  there  is  the  same  minute  description  of  the 
"  pride,  pomp  and  circumstance  "  of  Highland  warfare. 


MADAME  NECKER.  323 


MADAME    NECKEK. 

[1820.] 

THE  biographer  of  Mr.  Addison  considered  it  sufficient 
evidence  of  his  merits,  "  that  amidst  the  storms  of  faction,  in 
which  his  life  was  passed,  the  character  given  him  by  his 
friends  was  never  contradicted  by  his  enemies."  A  similar 
conclusion  might  be  formed  respecting  the  distinguished  lady 
whose  name  gives  a  title  to  the  present  article,  since,  though 
excluded  by  her  sex  from  political  stations,  yet,  as  the  devoted 
wife  and  confidential  friend  of  a  minister  who  sustained  an 
office  more  important,  and  at  a  period  far  more  turbulent  than 
that  of  Addison,  she  might  be  supposed  to  come  in  for  her  full 
share  of  factious  misrepresentation.  But  among  the  various 
journalists  devoted  to  the  cabals  of  that  period,  none  are  recol- 
lected by  whom  the  talents  or  virtues  of  this  lady  were  ever 
subjects  of  depreciation. 

It  remained  for  a  certain  writer  of  our  own,  in  a  certain 
periodical  work  of  late,  to  question,  for  the  first  time,  these  long 
established  claims  on  public  respect ;  and  if  one  is  tempted  to 
exult  unduly  in  the  facilities  afforded  to  literature  by  the  age 
of  printing  and  the  liberty  of  the  press,  it  may  operate  as  a 
salutary  humiliation  to  observe  how  the  venerated  names  oi 


324  POEMS   AM)    MISCELLANIES. 

the  excellent  and  the  eminent  are  thus  taken  in  vain  by  any 
one  of  yesterday,  who  is  presumptuous  enough  to  start  up  their 
self-constituted  reviewer.  The  subject  of  Madame  de  Stael  her- 
self afforded  materials  for  consideration  sufficiently  copious,  it 
might  have  been  supposed,  to  engross  the  limits  of  a  single 
critique;  but,  in  the  present  instance,  her  parents  are  first 
glanced  at  by  way  of  preliminary,  and  we  give  this  passage  as 
an  example  of  the  superficial  and  summary  mode  in  which  this 
attack  is  levied,  after  the  manner  of  the  North  British  masters 
in  the  art  of  war :  u  Her  father,  M.  Necker,  was  unquestionably 
a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  powers,  but  their  extent  was 
exceedingly  disproportionate  to  his  influence  on  France,  and 
on  the  world.  Of  humble  birth,  a  Protestant,  and  a  foreigner, 
he  overcame  the  obstacles  which  his  religion  and  his  country 
interposed  between  him  and  the  loftiest  station  to  which  a 
French  subject  could  aspire.  He  became  the  Prime  Minister 
of  Louis  XVI,  and  the  effective  ruler  of  the  French  monarchy, 
but  was  wholly  unable  to  wield  the  power  which  he  had 
acquired,  and  his  incapacity  and  ignorance  did  more,  perhaps, 
than  any  other  single  cause,  to  hasten  the  revolution." 

"  Madame  Necker,  in  point  of  talent  a  very  ordinary  woman, 
was  ambitious  of  literary  fame  both  for  her  daughter  and  her- 
self. She  published  some  books  and  pamphlets,  which  were 
little  read  then,  and  are  wholly  forgotten  now,  but  it  shows 
some  intellectual  resource  that  she  was  able  to  make  her  home 
the  common  and  favorite  resort  of  the  most  celebrated  men  of 


MADAME  NECKER.  325 

the  day."  Of  Mons.  Necker's  abilities  it  is  quite  unnecessary 
to  speak  ;  they  are  before  the  world,  and  must  be  tried  by  his 
peers  —  political  economists ;  nor  need  reference  be  had  to  the 
well-known  fact  of  his  having  been  invited  by  several  sovereigns 
of  Europe,  after  his  fall  from  power,  to  accept  a  post  in  their 
respective  dominions,  similar  to  the  one  he  had  occupied  in 
France,  and  this,  too,  in  spite  of  a  revolution  which  our  saga- 
cious diviner  of  causes  considered  as  hastened  by  his  "  ignorance 
and  incapacity."  The  more  unchivalrous  assault  on  Madame 
Necker,  it  may  be  as  well  to  notice,  not  for  her  sake  —  since  it 
may  safely  be  presumed  in  this  case,  as  in  that  of  her  lord,  their 
united  reputations  will  yet  continue,  the  wounds  inflicted  in 
those  two  paragraphs  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding  —  nor 
for  the  sake  of  those  who  read  and  think  for  themselves,  but 
for  such  only,  if  such  there  be,  "who  humbly  sip  their  learning 
from  reviews." 

This  lady,  as  Susan  Curchod,  the  daughter  of  a  Swiss  clergy- 
man, early  secured,  by  her  virtues  and  talents,  the  admiration 
of  Gibbon,  the  historian,  then  resident  abroad.  Her  union  was 
prevented  only  by  the  opposition  of  the  elder  Mr.  Gibbon,  on  ac- 
count of  the  lady's  want  of  fortune,  and  she  was  happily  reserved 
for  one  who,  equally  appreciating  her  other  excellences,  could 
also  sympathize  in  her  devout  sensibility  and  religious  hope. 
After  the  death  of  her  father,  we  find  her  nobly  and  success- 
fully exerting  her  abilities  for  the  support  of  herself  and  her 
surviving  parent,  by  educating  others.  The  next  era  of  her 


326  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

life  was  her  marriage  with  M.  Necker,  and  commencing  a  more 
splendid  career  in  Paris.  The  contemptuous  mention  of  "some 
books  and  pamphlets  she  published,"  which  are  said  to  have 
been  "  little  read  and  soon  totally  forgotten,"  might,  probably, 
have  been  repressed,  if  any  prescience  had  aroused  a  fellow 
feeling,  but  it  is  not  the  first  time  that  the  historian  of  the  fate 
of  others  has  become  unwittingly  the  prophet  of  his  own.  The 
publications  of  Madame  Necker  had  an  object  far  more  hal- 
lowed than  that  of  merely  gratifying  literary  ambition.  They 
were  devoted,  almost  exclusively,  to  the  subjects  of  education, 
and  of  the  poor.  If,  as  asserted,  they  were  "little  read"  at  the 
time,  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  most  undoubted  productions 
of  human  genius ;  and  to  have  since  been  "  totally  forgotten," 
would  furnish  no  new  proof  of  popular  insensibility.  That  they 
proved  highly  successful  and  acceptable,  followed  up  as  they 
were  by  her  personal  exertions  in  attaining  their  philanthropic 
end,  may  be  gathered  from  the  remarkable  circumstance  of 
their  being  specially  acknowledged  by  the  pastors  of  those 
parishes  which  were  the  scenes  of  their  influence,  in  the  public 
services,  and  the  divine  blessing  invoked  on  their  authoress  — 
heretic  as  she  was  —  not  omitting  a  prayer  for  her  conversion ! 
"We  know  of  no  higher  use  of  talent ;  none,  certainly,  more 
felicitous  to  its  possessor  or  the  community. 

The  very  success  of  these  books,  then,  may  inform  us  why 
they  are  no  longer  read  —  for  the  best  and  most  flattering 
of  reasons  —  because  their  object  was  immediate,  and  they 


MADAME  NECKER.  327 

attained  it,  and  because  other  individuals  have  since  followed 
where  this  enlightened  and  benevolent  woman  was  content  to 
lead  the  way.  It  was  in  this  manner  she  aided  the  efforts  of 
her  husband,  by  the  quiet,  efficient  exercise  of  her  powers  on 
subjects  of  practical  utility  within  their  reach,  and  not  by  going 
out  of  her  sphere  to  publish  theories  on  government,  or  specu- 
lations concerning  society.  She  proved  herself  the  worthy 
associate  of  one  who  was  confessedly,  by  all  parties,  a  consci- 
entious statesman,  and  who  had  the  happiness  of  being  able  to 
boast,  with  Mr.  Burke,  "  that  during  the  darkest  periods  of  his 
political  life,  every  care  vanished  on  entering  his  own  house." 
Her  letters  to  Gibbon,  preserved  in  Lord  Sheffield's  recent 
collection,  are,  of  themselves,  sufficient  testimony  of  her  fine 
talents,  did  no  other  exist,  while  they  are  curious,  as  presenting 
perhaps  an  unique  record  of  the  pure  and  ardent  interest  that 
may  be  cherished  by  a  married  woman  for  the  fame  and  hap- 
piness of  a  ci  devant  lover.  Her  anxiety  for  his  concerns  was 
never  remitted,  even  during  the  arduous  period  when  her  own 
were  in  peril,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was,  with  all  his  charac- 
teristic cold-heartedness,  so  far  sensible  of  her  worth  as  never 
to  replace  her  in  his  regards  by  any  other  connexion.  Why 
she  did  not  publish  more  and  oftener,  a  singular  anecdote  may 
account,  which  is  related  in  a  late  biography  of  her  daughter.  * 
It  tells  us  that  M.  Necker  objected  to  his  lady's  indulging  habits 
of  composition,  from  a  dread  that  he  might  disturb  her  when- 

*  By  Madame  de  Saussure. 


328  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

ever  he  entered  her  apartment,  and  that  Mademoiselle  herself 
was  obliged  to  write  standing,  and  by  stealth,  lest  she  should 
also  come  under  a  similar  interdict. 

Without  commenting  on  the  whimsical  peculiarities  often 
discernible  in  great  men,  or  conjecturing  what  distempered 
state  of  the  nervous  system,  under  the  excitement  of  public 
anxiety,  might  have  prompted  so  selfish  a  prohibition,  one 
thing  may  justly  be  inferred :  that  if  Madame  Necker  did 
indeed  possess  the  "  literary  ambition  "  ascribed  to  her  by  our 
reviewer,  and  yet  submitted  in  deference  to  the  above  request, 
its  suppression  was  more  honorable  than  could  have  been  its 
brightest  exertion,  and  gave  her  reason  to  say,  like  Mrs.  Grant, 
that  she  was  less  proud  of  what  she  had,  than  of  what  she  had 
not  written.  In  the  same  sentence  which  speaks  of  Mad.  N.  "  as 
very  ordinary  in  point  of  talent,"  it  is  conceded,  with  no  great 
heed  to  consistency,  that  she  must  have  had  "  some  intellectual 
resource,"  since  she  was  able  to  make  her  house  the  u  common 
and  favorite  resort  of  the  most  celebrated  men."  Candor 
would  have  admitted  the  fact  as  evincing  the  greatest  intellect- 
ual resource  ;  when  it  considered  how  many  circles  of  this  sort 
were  already  established  in  Paris  at  the  time  of  her  arrival, 
and  by  native  and  celebrated  French  women,  who  are  allowed 
beyond  ah1  others  to  excel  in  this  mode  of  entertainment. 
When,  too,  the  extreme  difficulty  of  getting  up  and  managing 
coversazione  is  taken  into  view,  and  how  often  it  has  been  inef- 
fectually attempted  in  England,  (even  with  all  the  advantages 


MADAME  NECKER.  329 

of  the  late  Mrs.  Montague,  for  instance,)  we  may  consider  it 
unequivocal  evidence  of  distinguished  powers  in  Mad.  N.,  a 
stranger  and  foreigner,  to  have  succeeded  in  harmonizing  the 
jarring  interests  of  so  many  literati,  and  making  heterogeneous 
materials  amalgamate  so  as  to  produce  a  union  of  the  useful 
with  the  agreeable.  All  this  was  accomplished  without  any 
aid  from  gallantry  and  intrigue,  the  usual  bane  of  such  coteries. 
After  glancing  at  the  L'Espinasses,  the  Geoffrins,  the  du  Def- 
fands — names  which  form  an  almost  unbroken  association  in  the 
mind  between  the  ideas  of  female  literature  and  licentiousness — 
it  is  a  relief  to  let  it  rest  on  the  phenomenon  of  at  least  one  wo- 
man, who  combined  the  refinements  of  a  Parisian  lei  esprit  with 
the  moral  energies  of  a  Swiss  mountaineer.  Without  becom- 
ing the  censor  of  her  age,  or  indulging  eloquent  declamations 
on  its  abuses,  she  was  solicitous  to  afford  herself  an  exception 
to  them ;  and  while  lenient  to  the  follies  and  vices  of  others, 
her  own  principles  were  unperverted,  her  own  practice  unsul- 
lied. Among  sceptics,  she  preserved  her  Christianity ;  among 
Catholics,  her  Protestantism ;  among  libertines,  her  purity.  Her 
domestic  and  social  affections  were  proof  against  the  cere- 
mony and  selfishness  of  a  court  life  j  and  having  been  rendered 
neither  giddy  with  power,  nor  intoxicated  with  pleasure,  she 
met  as  might  have  been  expected,  the  reverses  of  fortune 
without  dismay.  Her  faculties  were  not  bewildered  in  the 
shock  of  a  revolution,  which,  convulsing  alike  every  part  of 
society,  threatened  private  as  well  as  public  security,  and  she 


330  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

became  the  solace  of  her  husband's  retirement,  as  she  had  been 
the  ornament  of  his  elevation  —  carrying  with  her  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  endured  her  ordeal  triumphantly,  fulfilled 
all  the  relations  of  life  with  the  same  duteous  fidelity,  and  in 
the  privacies  of  Lausanne,  or  the  exposures  of  Paris,  kept  her- 
self equally  unspotted  from  the  world.  Like  her  daughter,  she 
appears  to  have  possessed  a  profound  sensibility ;  but  in  her 
own  case  better  disciplined  —  less  imaginative  —  less  brilliant 
certainly  —  but  for  that  reason  less  paradoxical.  She  appears 
to  have  excelled  in  the  soundness  of  an  understanding,  more 
sober  in  its  researches,  more  practical  in  its  results,  and  not  so 
liable  alternately  to  mislead  or  be  misled  by  its  own  sophistries 
or  those  of  others.  This  difference  of  intellect,  drawn  out  into 
action,  produced  a  corresponding  difference  of  conduct ;  and 
made  the  course  of  the  one  white  as  the  light  and  as  steady 
also  —  a  far  safer  object  of  emulation  than  the  eccentric  orbit, 
the  meteoric  and  ominous  splendors  which  characterize  her 
descendant.  Enough  has  probably  been  advanced  in  these 
statements  to  establish  the  point,  that  the  subject  of  them  was 
the  reverse  of  "  a  very  ordinary  woman  ;"  and  perhaps  nothing 
better  can  be  wished  for  France,  than-  that  her  daughters, 
whether  by  descent  or  adoption,  may  resemble  in  all  respects 
the  ivife  of  Necker. 


MADAME  DE   MAINTENON.  331 


MADAME  DE  MAINTENON. 

I  observed  with  pain,  in  some  recent  paper,  a  superficial  and 
summary  attack  on  the  character  of  Mad.  de  Maintenon,  ground- 
ed on  such  gossipings  as  those  in  the  Recollections  of  Mad. 
de  Caylus,  and  other  French  writers,  whose  national  pride  could 
never  pass  over  the  unprecedented  elevation  which  placed  a 
plebeian  "  so  near  the  throne  !"  Their  Grand  Monarque  might 
have  had  his  many  mistresses  with  impunity,  but  could  not  be 
pardoned  this  one  ivife. 

But,  though  an  illustrious  woman  has,  on  that  account,  been 
obnoxious  to  the  prejudices  of  an  aristocratic  people,  scrupu- 
lously jealous  of  any  infringement  of  C'aucia  regime,  yet,  in 
republican  America  such  objection  is  entitled  to  little  weight. 

Mad.  de  M.  is  charged,  by  these  cavillers,  with  having  been 
ambitious,  intriguing,  and  a  devotee.  If  ambitious,  it  is  surely  to 
her  credit  that  she  scorned  to  gratify  the  aspiring  propensity 
by  any  but  virtuous  means ;  that  loving  Lewis  much,  she  loved 
honor  more ;  for,  as  respects  intriguing  to  procure  her  advance- 
ment, (beside  that  the  very  idea  of  such  advancement  had 
been  chimerical,)  what  intrigue  could  be  carried  on  by  one 


332  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

without  fortune,  family,  or  friends,  and  whose  very  name  had 
become  a  by-word  to  awaken  associations  of  the  burlesque  and 
ridiculous  ?  That  she  was  devout  is  willingly  conceded,  since 
even  Protestants  will  not  esteem  her  the  less,  that,  being  a 
Catholic,  she  should  be  a  conscientious  and  devoted  one.  And 
this  being  the  case,  it  followed  but  naturally,  that  she  should 
be  desirous  of  influencing  the  man  she  loved,  and  the  sovereign 
she  served,  to  be,  in  deed  and  in  truth,  a  favorer  of  that  faith 
which  had  proved  her  own  solace  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
her  eventful  career,  and  which,  if  he  had  not  formerly  denied, 
he  had  too  often  practically  disregarded. 

Had  she  not  done  this  we  might  justly  have  suspected  the 
sincerity  of  her  attachment  either  to  her  heavenly  or  her 
earthly  master.  But  the  credit  of  this  conversion,  and  the 
consequent  rendering  the  Court  of  Louis  XIV.  devotional,  and 
therefore  dull,  for  which  certain  writers  are  so  bitter  toward  Mad. 
de  M.,  is  not  exclusively  chargeable  to  that  lady,  however  her 
principles  must  have  been  in  favor  of  such  an  instrumentality. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  those  "dull  days"  were  the 
latter  days  of  Lewis,  when,  according  to  the  course  of  nature, 
man  becomes  serious,  if  ever  so ;  that  they  were  the  season  of 
calamity,  of  reverse  of  fortune,  public  and  private ;  when  the 
successes  of  Marlboro'  and  Eugene  had  taught  the  proud 
and  hitherto  prosperous  monarch  that  he  held  no  "bond  of 
fate ;"  and  when  the  sudden  death,  in  rapid  succession,  of  the 
Dauphin,  his  son  and  intended  successor,  the  peerless  Duke  of 


MADAME   DE   MAIXTEXOX.  333 

Burgundy,  and  the  accomplished  Adelaide  de  Savoy,  with  their 
infant  son,  had  blasted  the  best  hopes  of  the  sovereign  and  the 
nation,  and  inspired  the  awful  apprehension  that  the  vials  of 
Almighty  wrath  had  been  withheld,  only  to  be  poured  in  all 
their  accumulated  bitterness ! 

If  adversity,  then,  ever  made  man  religious,  we  may  admit 
that  circumstances  became  here  powerfully  auxiliary  to  the 
wishes  of  Mad.  de  Maintenon. 

The  King  fled  to  religion  as  a  refuge  when  all  else  seemed 
failing,  and  if,  in  the  first  period  of  his  change,  he  was  disposed 
to  go  to  the  other  extreme,  and  multiply  unnecessary  observ- 
ances and  formalities,  it  was  no  more  than  the  history  of  the 
human  mind,  under  such  misfortunes  and  mutations,  might  lead 
us  to  expect. 

Sectarianism,  indeed,  which  made  the  torment  of  Mad.  de 
M.'s  life,  has  not  ceased  to  molest  her  memory. 

It  was  her  fate  to  live  at  a  period  of  highest  party  spirit, 
religious  not  less  than  political,  and  the  moderation  and  impar- 
tiality she  endeavored  to  extend  toward  all,  of  course  could 
never  satisfy  the  zealots  of  any.  She  displaced  Mad.  Guyon 
and  her  adherents  by  the  vigilance  which  counteracted  their 
efforts  to  spread  mysticism  and  mischief  among  her  Sieves  at  Su 
Cyr ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  she  jeopardized  her  credit  with 
the  Jesuits,  and  her  favor  with  the  King,  by  her  attempts  to 
avert  his  anger  from  the  Archbishop  of  Cambray  —  (the  more 
honorable  as  she  disapproved  his  bias  in  favor  of  Quietism, 


334  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

which  had  already  caused  her  so  much  vexation.)  The 
Huguenots,  suffering  under  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of 
Nantz,  and  the  Port  Royalists,  from  the  suppression  of  their 
establishment,  were  not  satisfied  with  her  attempts  at  mitigat- 
ing those  evils,  but  demanded  that  she  should  have  averted 
them ;  not  considering  that,  though  the  King's  heart  was  in 
her  keeping,  his  conscience  was  otherwise.  That  was  under  the 
guardianship  of  his  confessor,  Father  de  Tillins,  a  ferocious  and 
bigoted  Jesuit,  whose  fiery  zeal  prompted  him  to  sing  the  Nunc 
Dimittis,  while  his  palsied  hand  was  signing  the  order  for  rasing 
the  foundations  of  that  asylum,  so  long  hallowed  as  the  abode 
of  recluses,  so  celebrated  for  their  learning  and  their  piety ! 
The  equity  wrhich  had  guided  the  public  conduct  of  Mad.  de  M. 
was  alike  conspicuous  in  her  more  domestic  concerns.  She 
refused  to  gratify  the  rapacity  of  her  relations,  by  elevating 
them  to  places  for  which  they  were  unfitted ;  nor  would  suffer 
even  her  sisterly  regard  for  the  Chevalier  D'Aubigne  to  favor 
his  pretensions  beyond  the  sphere  where  they  could  really  be 
of  service  to  his  king  and  country.  Her  own  superiority  to  sor- 
did considerations  should  have  been  a  lesson  for  their  imitation, 
since  her  total  disregard  of  herself  in  this  particular,  left  her 
pension  unrecorded  at  the  death  of  Louis,  and  it  was  remitted 
to  her  by  the  Regent  Duke  of  Orleans,  with  the  remarkable 
comment  "that  her  disinterestedness  had  rendered  it  neces- 
sary." No  slight  homage,  extorted  as  it  were  from  a  political 


MADAME   DE   MAIXTEXON.  335 

enemy,  and  the  most  dissolute  of  men,  of  whose  principles  and 
practice  her  whole  life  had  been  a  tacit  reprobation. 

These  dissatisfactions  and  discussions,  though  they  could 
not  prevail  to  change  her  conduct,  yet  disturbed  her  tran- 
quillity ;  so  that  it  may  be  doubted  if  the  happiest  days,  on  the 
whole,  of  her  thirty  years'  preferment,  were  not  those  she  passed 
at  her  flourishing  establishment  of  St.  Cyr ;  when,  after  having 
seen,  as  she  said,  the  "  King  die  like  a  Christian,"  she  remained 
in  tranquil  retirement ;  and,  surrounded  by  the  grateful  pro- 
teges of  her  wisdom  and  her  beneficence,  could  indulge  the 
solacing  reflection  that  she  had  not  lived  in  vain ! 


336  POEMS   AXD    MISCELLANIES. 


THOUGHTS  ON  MILTON. 

THE  combination  of  the  different  talents  in  the  same  indi- 
vidual, for  successful  composition  in  poetry  and  prose,  has  been 
familiarized  to  us  in  so  many  instances  among  later  English 
authors,  especially  in  certain  of  our  distinguished  cotempora- 
ries,  that  we  may  claim  it  as  a  characteristic  of  our  own  times. 
It  is  certainly  one  of  comparatively  recent  exhibition.  We 
find  it  apparent  in  none  of  earlier  date  than  Dryden  and  Pope. 
They  exemplified  alike  both  styles  of  writing,  and  still  retain 
in  both  their  original  rank ;  while,  among  their  immediate 
predecessors,  the  Essays  of  Cpwley  have  long  survived  his 
lyrics;  and  the  epic  of  Milton  has  been  read  by  multitudes, 
who  have  suffered  "his  treatises,  tractates,  and  tenures,"  to 
remain  undisturbed  among  "  literary  sods."  From  this  decent 
burial,  however,  there  have  not  been  wanting  disposition  to 
disinter  them ;  and  once  and  again  the  spirit  of  party,  civil  and 
religious,  has  attempted  their  revival.  According  to  the  oppo- 
site creeds  of  the  respective  critics,  as  Churchmen  or  Dissenters, 
Royalists,  or  Republicans,  have  their  writings  alternately  been 
lauded  or  lampooned ;  but  as  neither  friendship  nor  enmity  — 
which  sometimes  accomplishes  the  same  end  by  different  means 


THOUGHTS    ON   MILTON.  337 

—  has  ever  succeeded  in  rendering  them  popular,  we  are  war- 
ranted in  suspecting  some  inherent  disqualification.  For  the 
third  time  the  experiment  is  renewed,  in  consequence  of  the 
newly  discovered  "Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine,"  and  the 
number  of  elaborate  disquisitions  it  has  occasioned  reminds  us 
of  a  curiosity  preserved  in  the  archives  of  one  of  our  anti- 
quarian societies,  consisting  of  half  a  score  of  MS.  books 
of  commentary  upon  the  single  Book  of  Revelations.  All 
admit  that  the  "  Treatise"  of  Milton  is  of  little  moment,  either 
to  the  memory  of  its  author,  or  the  edification  of  the  commu- 
nity ;  yet,  as  they  all  unite  also  in  making  it  the  occasion  of 
announcing  their  own  sentiments  on  his  life  and  opinions,  we, 
too,  may  follow  the  fashion  of  the  day.  There  is  no  paradox 
in  asserting  that  the  poetic  genius  of  Milton,  even  had  it  been 
acknowledged  alike  eminent  at  the  first,  as  ever  after,  would 
have  been  considered  rather  a  hindrance  than  a  help  to  his  pre- 
tensions as  a  political  economist.  The  province  of  each,  indeed, 
seems  as  far  asunder  as  the  heavens  and  the  earth.  St.  John, 
in  the  Isle  of  Patmos,  fresh  from  the  visions  of  that  apocalypse 
to  which  we  have  referred,  might  as  fitly  have  been  summoned 
to  control  the  dissensions  of  his  native  Judea,  as  the  poet  of 
Paradise  Lost  to  direct  the  factions  that  divided  England.  As 
a  guide  he  was  too  elevated  to  be  useful,  too  splendid  to  be 
safe.  Indeed,  the  sober  decision  of  the  public  to  regard  genius 
of  any  kind  with  a  vigilant  and  suspicious  eye,  appears  just  ill  CM! 
by  any  consideration  of  its  nature.  That  intellectual  attribute, 


338  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

to  which  we  assign  this  high  appellation,  and  which,  confiding  in 
its  own  resources,  is  originating  and  uncontrollable,  is  justly 
disturbed  in  political  science,  in  favor  of  wisdom,  which  refers 
with  more  deference  to  experience  and  observation.  Genius  is 
proverbially  restless ;  and  men  have  felt  that  the  balance  on 
which  their  destiny  was  suspended,  might  not  be  poised  by  an 
unsteady  hand. 

The  prevalence  of  imagination,  the  aspiration  after  a  lean 
ideal,  however  conducive  to  success  in  the  fine  arts,  becomes 
pernicious  in  that,  when  the  aim  —  as  the  Roman  Cato  was 
reminded  —  should  be  not  so  much  at  what  ivas  perfect,  as  ivhat 
was  practicable.  If  the  bard  might  destroy  his  poem,  or  the 
sculptor  his  statue,  in  the  hope  of  transcending  it  at  some  hap- 
pier moment,  it  was  his  own  creation,  over  which  he  exercised 
but  an  owner's  right,  and  the  world,  at  the  worst,  might  lose 
only  an  elegant  addition  to  its  unessential  ornaments.  But  the 
same  fastidiousness  employed  upon  government  endangers  a 
machine  which  many  hands  have  combined  to  form ;  which  the 
consent  of  many  minds  is  requisite  to  alter.  The  reckless 
assailant  who  would  risk  its  demolition,  in  the  vague  desire  of 
remodeling  its  fragments,  with  some  fancied  improvement, 
might  whelm  beneath  the  ruins  the  lives  and  liberties  of  con- 
temporary and  coming  generations.  After  all,  it  is  not  denied 
that  wherever  sagacious  statesmen  have  been  found  in  men 
of  genius,  it  was  where  this  quality  was  associated,  in  its 
operations,  with  the  amplest  knowledge  of  human  nature,  a 


THOUGHTS    ON   MILTON.  339 

combination  not  frequently  discoverable,  and  assuredly  not  in 
Milton. 

His  men  and  women,  or  rather  his  man  and  woman,  are  like 
none  other.  His  acquaintance  was  rather  among  books  than 
mankind  ;  or  among  mankind  chiefly  with  literati  like  himself; 
Hence,  too,  his  unfitness  for  the  drama,  to  which  he  once  seems 
to  have  aspired  ;  but  which  he  prudently  relinquished  in  time 
to  avoid  going  beyond  the  titles  of  his  contemplated  plays.  In 
that  wide  range  of  observation  which  takes  the  gauge  of  uni- 
versal character,  from  the  prince  to  the  peasant,  from  the  phi- 
losopher to  the  clown,  he  was  singularly  deficient ;  his  Comus, 
the  most  admired  of  his  attempts  in  this  line,  is  dramatic  chief- 
ly in  its  form  ;  and  the  harangues  of  his  supernatural  interlo- 
cutors have  not  much  in  common  with  mortal  colloquy. 

That  the  poem  of  Paradise  Lost  should  have  been  con- 
temed  at  its  publication,  and  at  a  period  and  among  a  people 
of  no  unenlightened  character,  is  among  the  marvels  of  literary 
history.  In  recalling  to  its  pages  the  truant  attention  of  his 
countrymen,  the  lettered  secretary  of  George  I  enjoyed  at  tri- 
umph far  more  congenial  with  his  character  than  any  of  the 
honors  attendant  on  his  official  station.  The  fine  taste  of  a 
critic  may  thus  be  to  an  author  what  a  fine  light  is  to  a 
painting;  not  indeed  creating,  but  developing  those  beautiful 
touches  which  else  might  have  been  forever  latent,  and  conse- 
quently lost  to  society. 

In  the  department  of  sacred  epic,  the  work  of  Milton  was 


340  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

alone,  at  least  in  English.  That  of  Dante  was  known  only 
through  the  dim  medium  of  translation ;  or  that  scarcely  less 
dim  insight  which  is  said  to  be,  at  the  utmost,  after  all,  which 
any  man  can  acquire  in  any  language  but  his  own. 

The  Italians,  we  believe,  claim  for  their  author  a  prece. 
dence  in  merit  as  in  time.  In  one  particular  the  claim  must  be 
allowed.  From  the  era  of  Elizabeth,  the  Briton  found  in  the 
perfect  phraseology  of  Bacon,  every  expression  he  could  desire, 
either  for  use  or  ornament.  The  Florentine  was  the  inventor 
not  only  of  his  poem,  but  of  the  words  of  his  language  in 
which  it  was  conveyed,  the  dream  and  the  interpretation  there- 
of; and  Italy  received  beside  a  song  the  gift  of  a  tongue. 
Considering,  too,  the  remoteness  and  barbarity  of  that  age  and 
the  numerous  occupations  of  the  author,  as  soldier,  magistrate, 
ambassador ;  not  merely  a  political  writer,  but  an  efficient 
actor  in  its  political  commotions  ;  and  if  the  impediments  which 
intellect  has  to  overcome,  should  be  taken  into  the  account  when 
estimating  its  achievements,  candor,  perhaps,  would  assign  the 
pre-eminence  to  the  author  of  the  Divine  Comcdia. 

Of  the  merits  of  Milton's  epic,  after  so  much  has  been  told 
us  by  such  authorities  as  Barrow,  Addison,  Johnson  and  War- 
ton,  any  thing  additional  were  superfluous,  if  not  presump- 
tuous. Its  defects  received  less  consideration  at  first,  and  with 
obvious  reason,  since,  while  even  the  former  remained  unheed- 
ed, it  would  have  been  impolitic  and  ill-timed  to  designate  the 
latter.  To  those  internal  advantages  was  united,  as  we  have 


THOUGHTS    ON   MILTON.  341 

seen,  the  adventitious  recommendation  of  being  without  any 
object  of  comparison ;  whether  it  distanced  all  competition,  or 
whether  the  public  had  wearied  of  two  works  of  similar  extent 
on  like  subjects  ;  which,  perhaps,  may  help  to  account  for  the 
cold  reception  of  Paradise  Regained,  exclusive  of  its  intrinsic 
inferiority.  And  if  such  were  the  case  then,  how  much  more 
so  now  ? 

The  age  of  epics,  we  have  been  truly  told,  has  gone  by. 
With  the  multiplication  of  claimants  for  notice  in  every  depart- 
ment of  literature,  the  notice  to  each  must  necessarily  be  cir- 
cumscribed ;  and  length  becomes  a  defect  for  which  no  excel- 
lence can  atone ;  unless  human  life  could  be  lengthened  in 
proportion. 

The  subject  of  this  poem,  moreover,  formerly  procured  for 
it  audience  with  those  who  considered  poetry  in  general  but 
an  unhallowed  pastime.  The  stern  Puritan,  who  eschewed  the 
whole  art  and  mystery  of  verse-making,  yet  allowed  himself  to 
follow  the  flights  of  Milton,  if  not  as  a  great,  yet  as  a  godly 
poet ;  and  among  their  New  England  descendants,  instances 
are  not  wanting,  perhaps  within  the  recollection  of  some,  when 
the  Paradise  Lost,  with  the  Night  Thoughts,  the  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress, and  the  odd  volumes  of  the  interminable  series  of  Clar- 
rissa  Harlowe,  composed  the  whole  authorized  circle  of  profane 
literature. 

We  confess  ourselves  in  agreement  with  those  who  consider 
the  admiration  inspired  by  the  character  of  Satan,  as  of  inju- 


342  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

rious  moral  tendency.  Let  him  who  doubts  this  tendency,  com- 
pare his  own  emotions  after  reading  the  sermon  on  the  Mount, 
with  an  effort  to  enter  into  its  spirit,  with  those  experienced 
while  attending  to  the  description  or  declamation  of  Satan, 
with  a  like  surrender  of  soul  to  its  influence,  and  judge  by 
the  result. 

The  heroes  of  the  Uliad  have  been  liable  to  some  excep- 
tion on  this  ground,  but  with  less  reason,  for  Achilles  and  Aga- 
memnon were  human  beings,  the  story  of  whose  excesses  might 
serve  as  beacons  to  men  of  like  passions ;  and  they  were  limit- 
ed in  their  career  of  evil,  by  the  scantiness  of  human  intelli- 
gence, and  the  brevity  of  human  life. 

But  the  supreme  source  of  evil,  with  power  indefinite,  and 
exerted  only  to  injure ;  nor  only  such  in  himself,  but  its 
instigator  to  all  others,  without  any  good  ;  or  in  the  strong  lan- 
guage of  his  delineator,  with  evil  become  his  good,  and  with- 
out a  wish  or  possibility  of  reform — such  a  being  should  never 
have  excited  aught  but  unmingled  detestation. 

If  it  be  objected  that  such  a  feeling  is  unhealthy  to  the 
soul,  it  is  granted ;  and  this  is  a  reason  why  a  devout  mind 
ought  not  to  have  selected  a  character  which  could  in  justice 
and  truth  excite  none  other.  He  should  have  emulated  the 
guarded  silence  of  the  Scriptures  on  this  head.  While  copious 
in  descriptions  of  the  Deity,  and  employing  alternately  on 
his  majesty  and  mercy  all  the  magnificence  and  tenderness  of 
oriental  imagery,  they  are  sparing  in  their  reference  to  Satan, 


THOUGHTS   ON   MILTON.  343 

representing  him  as  an  adversary  to  be  dreaded  for  his  power, 
or  distrusted  for  his  duplicity,  but  never  dilating  on  his  attri- 
butes to  fire  the  fancy  or  command  the  admiration.  Let  us 
not  deceive  ourselves  in  a  matter  of  such  moral  import,  let  not 
the  sonorous  language  of  the  poet,  how  sublime  soever,  beguile 
us  of  our  rectitude  of  judgment.  The  "  unconquerable  will," 
the  spirit  never  to  submit  or  yield,  is  one  of  the  worst  features 
of  the  worst  men.  It  is  the  spirit  which  makes  our  rabble  at 
an  execution  look  with  contempt  on  the  penitent,  and  with 
respect  on  the  ruffian  who  dies  game.  It  is  the  spirit  most  hos- 
tile to  Christianity,  and  most  the  reverse  of  that  embodied  in 
its  Founder. 

But  at  present,  fashion  has  felt  an  increasing  dread  of  con- 
founding the  pioneers  of  Fancy  and  Faith ;  the  time  for  Scrip- 
tural subjects  has  now  also  passed  away  ;  and  they  are  now  as 
reverently  avoided,  as  they  once  were  reverently  sought. 

The  "  Paradise  Lost "  is  now  more  admired  than  read,  we 
suspect,  and  we  content  ourselves  with  paying  to  its  author,  as 
the  devotees  of  Thibet  to  their  grand  Lama,  a  distant  and 
unseen  adoration.  We  suspect  this  from  having  known  men 
of  the  highest  abilities  and  reputation,  who  could  not  relish 

Milton. 

After  having  paid  our  willing  tribute  to  the  grandeur  and 
loftiness  of  his  Muse,  we  feel  something  wanting  in  the  tender 
and  pathetic.  We  do  not  experience  that  mastery  over  our 
feelings,  which  some  other  bards  exert  to  a  degree  nearly  over- 


344  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

powering.  The  forfeiture  of  Eden  for  a  single  transgression, 
one  would  think  an  event  sufficiently  piteous,  yet  who  ever 
wept  over  the  strain  that  records  it  ? 

The  coarseness  and  roughness  of  his  portraitures  of  the 
affections,  strike  us  more  in  contrast  with  the  exquisite  repre- 
sentations we  have  been  furnished  in  an  age  so  prolific  in  poet- 
ry as  our  own,  and  are  not  likely  to  be  more  tolerated  as  that 
refinement  advances ;  this  has  been  noticed,  we  remember,  by 
one  of  the  most  approved  among  modern  tourists,  whose  re- 
marks, had  we  his  volume  near  us,  we  should  willingly  substi- 
tute for  ours.  And  the  origin  of  this  defect  lay  deep  in  the 
man,  in  those  illiberal  and  ignoble  views  of  the  female  charac- 
ter, which  affected  both  his  temper  and  his  understanding.  He 
is  scarcely  a  step  in  advance  of  a  patriarch  of  the  Pentateuch,  or 
the  modern  Mahomedan. 


GEORGE  IV.  AND  QUEEN  CAROLINE.  345 


ON  MRS.  GRANT'S  LETTER  RELATIVE  TO  GEORGE  IV 
AND  QUEEN  CAROLINE. 

[1821.] 

SIR  Thomas  Brown  wrote  a  book,  if  we  remember,  under 
the  title  of  "  Vulgar  Errors ;"  and  from  his  time  to  our  own, 
various  have  been  the  efforts  of  ingenious  men  to  prove  cer- 
tain current  opinions  of  their  respective  communities  deserving 
only  the  same  appellation.  Much  effort  has  been  wasted,  for 
instance,  to  convince  us  the  Italian  statesman,  Machiavel,  after 
being  so  long  proverbial  for  subtlety  and  dissimulation  as  to 
have  his  name  become  synonymous  with  that  of  those  qualities, 
was,  in  reality,  a  very  upright,  candid  sort  of  man ;  and  my 
Lord  Oxford  has  expended  much  erudition  in  contending  that 
Richard  III,  instead  of  a  crook-back  tyrant,  murderer,  and  so 
on,  was,  strange  as  it  may  be,  a  handsome  personage,  and  a 
mild,  merciful  sovereign. 

To  these  popular  mistakes  may  now,  it  seems,  be  added  one 
as  to  the  character  of  his  present  majesty  George  IV,  who, 
according  to  the  recent  letters,  said  to  be  directed  by  himself 
to  his  people,  and  Mrs.  Grant's  duplicate  thereof,  is  tout  au  con- 
traire  to  what  has  been  imagined.  The  world  had  been  wont 
to  think  of  him  as  corrupt  in  principle  and  dissolute  in  prac- 
tice, deficient  in  every  relation  of  life  —  a  bad  husband  —  a 


346  POEMS    AND    MISCELLANIES. 

bad  father  —  disobedient  to  parents,  unthankful,  unholy ;  with- 
out sufficient  probity  to  prevent  his  involving  himself,  for  the 
second  time,  in  debts  he  could  not  pay ;  base  enough  to  marry 
a  woman  he  hated,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  discharging  those 
debts,  and  ingrate  enough,  (by  his  own  confession,)  to  cast  her 
off  the  moment  this  purpose  was  accomplished.  But  this,  we 
are  told,  is  viewing  the  matter  altogether  in  a  wrong  light. 
George  IY  ought,  in  fact,  to  be  considered  a  truly  magnani- 
mous Prince,  whose  life  has  been  a  life  of  sacrifices.  In  his 
first  public  transactions  as  Regent,  he  renounced  the  political 
friends  who  had  been  his  chosen  associates,  and  calculated  on 
remaining  such ;  an  act  for  which  he  was  accused  of  instabil- 
ity and  perfidy.  No  such  thing.  It  really  proceeded  —  say 
the  King  and  Mrs.  Grant  —  from  the  refined  motive  of  securing 
his  royal  father,  if,  peradventure,  his  reason  had  returned,  from 
seeing  himself  surrounded  with  unaccustomed  counsellors.  In 
the  private  career  of  the  Prince,  the  same  spirit  of  "  self-sacri- 
fice may  be  discerned."  He  not  only  immolated  himself  to 
satisfy  the  claims  of  justice,  but  also  immolated  her,  who, 
according  to  the  Church,  had  become  part  of  himself,  his  kins- 
woman and  consort,  a  victim  to  his  creditors.  His  abandon- 
ment of  her  immediately  afterward,  appears,  indeed,  even  to 
his  apologist,  an  act  of  somewhat  equivocal  rectitude,  it  being 
rather  inconsistent  to  deny  a  husband's  protection  and  yet 
exact  a  wife's  fidelity ;  but  even  this  is  referred  to  a  feeling  of 
delicacy,  which  led  him  to  revolt  at  remaining  with  a  woman 


GEORGE   IV.    AND    QUEEEN   CAROLINE.  347 

whose  manners  and  habits  are  alleged  to  be  coarse  and  dis- 
agreeable—  a  cogent  reason,  certainly,  however  uncommon,  for 
annulling  a  marriage.  One  might  except  to  the  suddenness 
of  the  act,  as  scarcely  allowing  time  to  ascertain  what  the  man- 
ners and  habits  of  a  partner  really  were ;  but  such  objectors  do 
not  allow  for  the  extreme  sensitiveness  of  the  Prince's  feelings. 
It  may  be  matter  of  surprise,  too,  how  such  attenuated  feelings 
could  be  attained  and  preserved  amid  a  succession  of  casual 
connexions,  "joyless,  loneless,  and  unendeared,"  but  we  know 
that  delicate  flowers  spring  up  in  unpromising  soil ;  so  long  as 
he  had  these  feelings  we  would  not  speculate  as  to  how  he  came 
by  them.  Mrs.  Grant  suggests  one  source,  from  which  we 
should  hardly  expect  her  to  derive  them  —  living  for  ten  years 
in  matrimonial  habits  with  a  "  lady  distinguished  for  elegance 
of  deportment."  His  royal  brother  of  Clarence,  it  will  be 
remembered,  lived  in  the  like  "matrimonial  habits,"  with  a 
lady  of  "  equal  elegance,"  who,  after  being  long  accustomed  to 
do  and  receive  the  honors  of  his  princely  mansion  at  Busby 
Park,  was  at  last  abandoned,  to  die  in  penury,  and  be  indebted 
to  the  charity  of  strangers  for  her  burial !  Seriously  —  for 
our  irony  is  overpowered  by  the  stronger  emotion  which  such 
recollections  excite  —  seriously,  it  is  a  subject  of  shame,  not 
less  than  surprise,  to  see  this  old  lady  of  Laggan,  (and  we  use 
the  word,  not  in  ridicule,  but  as  indicating  that  age  should  do 
better,)  this  old  lady,  this  widow  of  a  clergyman,  with  a  judg- 
ment so  perverted  as  to  suffer  her  to  write  thus !  Surely  it  is 


348  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

not  among  the  least  evils  attendant  on  a  regal  government, 
that  it  can  warp  even  good  and  pious  minds,  such  as  those  of 
Mrs.  Grant  and  Mr.  Wilberforce,  to  forget  there  is  but  one  code 
of  commandments  for  the  high  and  the  low ;  the  first,  as  we  have 
seen,  losing  the  sinner  in  the  sovereign  ;  and  the  second,  dedi- 
cating a  work  on  vital  Christianity  to  a  "  Sabbath  duellist," 
because  he  filled  the  office  of  Prime  Minister. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed,  however,  from  this  specimen,  that 
Mrs.  Grant  is  a  woman  of  lax  notions  of  morality.  It  is  only 
wickedness  in  highest  places  —  a  location  that,  with  others,  en- 
hances its  criminality,  but,  to  her,  diminishes  it.  Toward 
breaches  of  the  decalogue,  when  they  occur  in  a  subject,  she 
is  sufficiently  inexorable,  and  the  vial  of  wrath,  from  which 
the  sacred  person  of  the  King  was  secure,  is  poured  without 
mercy  on  the  head  of  his  Queen.  Things  are  here  called  by 
their  right  names  with  a  vengeance,  nor  does  the  righteous 
anger  allow  itself  to  be  tempered  by  any  compassion  for  a 
fallen  sister  —  if  fallen  she  was  —  by  any  considerations  of  sex 
or  situation  —  the  one  so  weak,  the  other  so  forlorn  —  that 
might  mitigate  its  penalty. 

At  this  distance  from  Europe,  and  seeing  through  our  only 
medium,  the  partial  representations  of  both  parties,  we  could 
not  agitate  the  question  of  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  Queen 
Caroline.  But,  if  guilty,  no  offender  had  ever  more  to  urge  in 
point  of  extenuation.  Brought  from  her  own  country,  against 
her  will,  to  a  strange  land,  and  disgraced  to  be  the  instrument 


GEORGE   IV.   AND    QUEEN    CAROLINE.  349 

of  freeing  the  heir  apparent  from  the  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ments of  his  profligate  minority ;  outraged  by  having  their 
connexion  sundered  as  soon  as  formed ;  a  wife  forsaken  by  her 
husband ;  a  mother  separated  from  her  child ;  a  Princess,  tan- 
talized with  the  title,  without  the  honors  of  the  station,  losing 
one  by  one  the  attendance  of  those  minions  of  power  who  took 
their  cue  from  their  master,  and  thought  it  not  politic  to  notice 
whom  he  disregarded ;  let  any  one  of  her  sex  revolve  these 
unprecedented  circumstances  in  her  mind,  and  we  will  ven- 
ture to  say,  that  she  who  reflects  most  deeply  and  most  pain- 
fully on  the  passions  and  weaknesses  of  a  common  nature,  and 
then  calculates  how  these  are  fostered  and  influenced  by  the 
false  education  of  a  court  and  the  corrupt  society  of  courtiers, 
will  not  be  the  first  to  cast  a  stone. 

Mrs.  Grant  has  some  remarks  to  account  for  the  late  prev- 
alent disaffection  amongst  her  countrymen  ;  but,  if  her  state- 
ments regarding  the  British  public  are  not  better  founded  than 
they  once  were  of  the  American,  (vide  her  History  of  an  Amer- 
ican Lady,)  we  may  be  excused  from  placing  any  strong  reliance 
on  their  accuracy.  She  summarily  refers  the  revolutionary 
spirit  of  the  English  to  the  example  of  the  French,  as  these,  in 
turn,  impute  theirs  to  our  own ;  a  common  and  compendious 
method  with  nations,  as  with  individuals,  of  shifting  the  bur- 
then from  their  own  shoulders  to  those  of  their  neighbors ;  in 
accordance  with  which  the  youthful  excesses  of  his  Majesty  are 
charged  (as  Prince  Hal's  were  to  his  hoary  Falstaff)  upon  those 


350  POEMS   AND   MISCELLANIES. 

"  dangerous  associates,"  Sheridan  and  Fox.  But,  let  every  one 
bear  his  own  burthen,  and  as  the  French  nation,  it  would 
readily  be  allowed,  have  native  enormities  in  plenty  to  account 
for,  the  less  should  they  be  rendered  answerable  for  any  that 
are  foreign.  Besides,  what  Mrs.  G.  calls  "  going  back  to  the 
beginning,"  is  an  era  much  too  recent  to  be  justly  so  called.  It 
is  no  new  thing  for  the  English  to  evince  traits  of  insubordi- 
nation. Such  a  spirit  has  exhibited  itself  from  time  to  time, 
under  every  period  of  their  history,  sometimes  with  more, 
sometimes  with  less  violence,  long  before  the  existence  of  what 
is  styled  the  French  Eevolution.  All  that  can  be  said  is,  that 
similar  causes,  when  arising  in  either  nation,  have  produced 
corresponding  results.  The  evils  of  popular  ignorance,  for  exam- 
ple, so  ably  set  forth  in  a  late  eloquent  essay,  were  common  to 
both  countries;  and  the  bewildering  effect  of  a  few  rays  of 
light,  darted  suddenly  on  minds  unprepared  by  previous  edu- 
cation to  receive  it,  may  in  some  degree  be  imagined,  when 
they  were  told  for  the  first  time  of  their  rights,  without  posses- 
sing the  cultivated  judgment  that  could  have  directed  to  the 
true  method  of  asserting  them. 

But,  of  the  French  Eevolution  itself,  few  at  present  suppose 
that  it  started  into  life,  the  full-grown  hydra  of  a  day  or  a  year, 
and  dating  its  birth  from  the  10th  of  August,  or  2nd  of  Sep- 
tember, 1792.  It  were  attributing  too  much  to  any  sect  of 
encyclopedists,  however  able  or  willing  to  forward  such  a 


GEORGE  IV.  AND  QUEEN  CAROLINE.  351 

prodigy,   to   suppose   they  did    more   than   aid   a   work,  the 
causes  of  which  had  been  long  and  gradually  accumulating. 

Among  these  various  causes,  politicians  have  been  obliged 
to  enumerate,  together  with  the  oppressive  forms  of  govern- 
ment, the  vices  of  those  by  whom  it  was  administered.  The 
protracted  and  ruinous  wars  occasioned  by  the  ambition  of 
Louis  XIV  ;  and  the  degradation,  through  the  long  minority  of 
his  successor,  of  all  morality,  in  the  person  of  the  Regent  Duke 
of  Orleans — and  of  all  religion  in  that  of  his  preceptor,  the 
infamous  Cardinal  Dubois ;  the  continued  exhibition  of  a  disso- 
lute nobility,  and  a  worldly-minded  priesthood,  during  the  reign 
of  the  imbecile  voluptuary  who  next  filled  the  throne ;  the 
frequency  of  "  matrimonial  habits"  without  matrimonial  sanc- 
tions, and  of  superstitious  ceremonies  and  observances,  without 
an  upright  practice  :  all  this  depravity  had  accumulated  before 
the  eyes  of  the  people,  from  year  to  year,  until  it  became  too 
universal,  at  the  accession  of  the  late  unfortunate  Louis  XVI, 
for  the  solitary  example  of  that  conscientious  and  decorous 
monarch  to  counteract.  Where  abuses  had  been  so  long  and 
so  flagrant  amongst  the  high,  can  we  wonder  there  should  be 
at  last  a  reaction  amongst  the  low  ?  And,  so  far  as  such  cor- 
ruptions have  prevailed  in  Great  Britain,  (for  that  they  have 
prevailed  in  some  degree,  who,  that  knows  aught  of  its  history, 
for  the  last  score  of  years,  will  deny  ?)  they  have  been  followed 
by  the  like  consequences.  It  is  hazarding  little  to  predict 
such  will  continue  to  be  the  case,  and  that  an  oppressive  and 


352  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

vicious  aristocracy  will  produce  a  riotous,  disaffected  populace ; 
though  Mrs.  G.  is  too  prudent  or  too  loyal  to  deduce  any  such 
conclusion,  but  rather  comforts  herself  that  all  will  be  set 
right  again,  through  the  chivalry  of  some  "  young  wits,"  who 
have  sprung  up  in  Clydesdale,  and  who  range  themselves  on 
the  side  of  the  "  Altar  and  the  Throne." 

But  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  knights  like  these,  even 
registered,  as  we  suppose  their  achievements  to  be,  in  the 
columns  of  Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  to  lend  any 
external  support  to  the  throne  and  the  altar,  which  shall  be  a 
substitute  for  the  virtues  that  should  fill  the  one  and  minister 
at  the  other.  Shakspeare,  a  wiser  than  Mrs.  Grant  or  her 
champions,  has  told  "THE  GREAT"  they  were  the  "MAKERS  OF 
MANNERS."  Let  them  look  to  their  own  work.  For  ourselves,  the 
moral  to  be  drawn  from  these  things  is  obvious :  to  heighten 
our  gratitude  for  the  salutary  tendency  of  our  own  simple 
institutions,  and  our  resolve  to  cherish  that  rectitude  of  char- 
acter which,  beneficial  to  all  forms  of  government,  is  essential 
to  the  very  existence  of  that  which  is  republican. 


OBITUARY.  353 


OBITUARY. 

[March,    182  2.  ] 

DIED  suddenly,  on  the  tenth  of  this  month,  Lydia,  wife  of 
Win.  Deane,  of  Salem,  and  daughter  of  Wm.  Rotch,  Sen.,  of 
New  Bedford  —  a  martyr,  it  is  supposed,  to  fatigue  of  mind  and 
body,  from  her  strenuous  endeavors  to  heal  the  late  alarming 
dissensions  in  the  Society  of  Friends,  of  which  she  was  so 
distinguished  a  member.  Deplorable  as  the  sacrifice  is,  if  it 
shall  have  the  effect  to  restore  peace,  where  there  is  no  peace 
at  present,  not  in  vain  will  it  have  been  offered  !  And  if  any 
thing  could  have  power  to  allay  animosities,  and  compose  dis- 
turbances, it  must  be  the  overwhelming  regret,  that  they  have 
thus  conspired  to  wound  the  spirit  and  break  the  heart  of  one 
in  the  meridian  of  her  course,  who  was  the  centre  of  so  wide  a 
circle  ;  and  in  whom  the  power  and  the  will  to  be  useful,  were, 
by  a  rare  felicity,  so  proportionably  combined,  that  from  a 
series  of  exertions,  unremitting,  though  unobtrusive,  we  were 
justified  in  expecting  a  large  aggregate  of  good,  throughout 
the  length  of  days  which  we  fondly  hoped  remained  for  her. 


354  POEMS   AND    MISCELLANIES. 

To  the  blameless  simplicity  of  deportment  which  usually 
characterizes  her  sect,  Mrs.  Dean  added  a  liberality  of  under- 
standing, and  an  enlightened  estimate  of  human  nature,  derived 
from  the  peculiar  opportunities  she  had  enjoyed  for  extensive 
surveys  of  it,  both  here  and  in  Europe.  Blending  thus  the 
wisdom  of  the  serpent  with  the  harmlessness  of  the  dove,  she 
became  so  eminently  qualified  for  the  judicious  exercise  of  the 
great  influence  her  situation  afforded,  that  when  we  dwell  on 
her  death,  and  its  consequent  privations  to  the  weak,  whom  she 
fortified  by  her  energy ;  the  wayward,  whom  she  restrained  by 
her  tenderness  and  discretion ;  the  sorrowful,  who  looked  to 
her  for  consolation ;  the  perplexed,  who  were  directed  by  her 
unclouded  judgment;  and  the  destitute,  who  were  relieved  by 
her  unsparing  charity,  when  we  think  of  these  things,  we 
feel  how  difficult  the  lesson  of  submission  and  acquiescence, 
which  our  friend  would  have  been  the  first  to  inculcate  and  to 
exemplify. 

We  are  grateful,  however,  that  such  a  character  has  exist- 
ed, and  that  we  have  known  her,  believing  few  were  ever  privi- 
leged to  be  in  her  presence,  who  would  not  concur  with  us,  that 
there  was  something  hallowing  in  its  influences. 

The  elevation  and  purity  of  her  sentiments  imparted  a  dig- 
nity to  her  figure,  and  a  noble  serenity  to  her  aspect,  of  which 
every  one  was  conscious,  except  their  possessor  ;  but  the  awe 
they  might  else  have  imposed  was  softened  into  affection,  upon 
witnessing  the  genuine  and  touching  humility  with  which  she 


OBITUARY.  355 

communicated  the  result  of  her  abilities  and  acquirements ; 
while  the  cordiality  that  gave  a  value  to  her  most  trivial  cour- 
tesy, and  the  benignity  that  shone  over  her  whole  manner,  made 
her  altogether  appear  like  a  being  from  a  better  state  than 
ours;  so  that  an  enthusiast  in  the  faith  of  a  pre-existence, 
might  have  found  confirmation  of  his  opinion  in  a  cultivation 
of  her  society. 

But  with  this  impress  of  a  higher  world,  Mrs.  D.  was  not 
abstracted  from  the  labors  or  the  interests  of  this ;  but  rational 
in  her  practice,  as  devout  in  her  aspirations,  no  scheme  how- 
ever humble,  no  details  however  minute,  whose  object  was 
probable  utility,  but  she  would  patiently  analyze  and  generous- 
ly encourage.  Thus  consecrating  her  high  powers  to  the  pur- 
poses for  which  they  were  bestowed,  she  fulfilled  her  trust ; 
having  loved  her  own  ivhich  were  in  the  ivorld,  she  loved  them  unto  the 
ewJ,.and,  consistent  to  the  last,  died  as  she  had  lived,  in  meek 
and  reverential  imitation  of  the  Author  of  her  faith,  for  the 
cause  of  peace  on  earth,  and  good  will  amongst  men. 

"  Her  flight  Narissa  took  —  her  upward  flight, 
"  If  ever  soul  ascended  !" 


L  UUB  4U^  t>  Jt> 


